Death Was in the Picture (12 page)

Dex smiled. “I do, Miss Pangborn. You’ll be quite the belle of the ball.”

“You look pretty dashing yourself, Mr. Theroux. You cut quite the fine figure in your monkey suit.” He did, too. And I was glad to see that, though his face was bruised and somewhat the worse for wear, and though he held his arm gingerly, it looked battered more than broken. You had to be glad for small favors. From what I’d seen that afternoon, it could have gone either way.

He nodded at me formally, then handed across a white mask. It was beaded and in a pale champagne color that didn’t entirely clash with my dress.

Dex hooked a black mask from his breast pocket and popped it on. “Say: I’m starting to think we might just have some fun at this shindig.”

“Miss Katherine, do invite Mr. Theroux inside,” Marjorie said, poking her head into the foyer from the dining room.

“Well, hello Mrs. Oleg,” Dex said, taking off the mask and popping it back into his breast pocket. “Lovely evening we’re having, isn’t it?”

Marjorie just scowled at him. Even though she’d extended her invitation, you didn’t need to be a detective to know she was suspicious of Dex. In a way, I understood that quite well. When my father was alive, Dex was not the sort of man who would have been welcome in our home—at least, not when anyone was looking. Since he’d died, though, I’d had reason to wonder about some of the secrets my father had kept.

Dex wasn’t put off by her coldness. “And you’re not to worry about Miss Katherine, Mrs. Oleg,” he said, just as though she had greeted him in return. “I’ll have her back to you all in one piece in a couple of hours.”

“Thanks, Dex,” I said once we’d settled into the big car. I had the cape I’d bought at Blackstone’s around my shoulders to ward off the evening’s chill. The beaded dress had been built for beauty, not warmth. “Marjorie is never very nice to you. I’m sorry about that. Nothing I say or do seems to change her mind.”

“It’s all right, Kitty. I understand. She’s afraid I’m a danger to you. I can see it in her eyes. And I guess I am.” I would have protested, but he barged right through. “No, no: really. Look at the danger you face on a daily basis.” I laughed at that because, truly, there were whole weeks where we didn’t see a single paying customer and I doubted I was in danger from the mailman. “Well, she sees danger even where you and I do not, Kitty. It’s just the way of things.”

I knew that, in a way, he was right. Yet that was a part of it all I enjoyed, though I don’t think I would have admitted it out loud to Dex or anyone else. And I was quite sure I could never have made Marjorie understand.

Working for Dex wasn’t like working for a doctor or a lawyer. Perhaps those jobs had their points of interest, as well. But from where I was sitting, I couldn’t see it. And where was I sitting? In a big car, at the side of a handsome man. I was wearing a pretty dress made by a famous designer and purchased by a movie star. We were on our way to a masquerade ball—a
ball
—being thrown in the clubhouse of a secret organization of actors.

No, really: it was difficult to imagine this happening to a girl who worked for Hartounian the importer or in an accountancy firm.

“Have I told you that you look swell tonight, Kitty?” I smiled. Thanked him. Controlled the melt of lipstick and the flutter of wings in my gut.

THE MASQUERS WERE headquartered on North Sycamore Avenue in Hollywood, just a couple of blocks off Hollywood Boulevard, a couple more from Sunset. Their clubhouse was in what had once been a grand private residence. From the street it looked like a normal, if lovely and huge, home. It was finished in the Tudor style, the grounds carefully maintained and closely clipped, the house an island in a huge man-made oasis.

I didn’t know what I had expected, but it was different from the reality. As we wandered up the front walk, our masks in place, the music got louder, the cacophony more pronounced. The front door was open, as were many of the windows, perhaps letting in the cool evening air but also allowing plumes of smoke and sound to escape into the night.

Once we’d put our masks on, we stood in a larger foyer momentarily flummoxed, not knowing quite what to do with ourselves or what to expect beyond this point. Stairways led up and down, though the largest wave of music and noise came from a pair of double doors on one side. They were closed just now but one imagined that, when they were thrown open, it would have been difficult to talk or even think.

“It’s all a bit much to take in, isn’t it?” the speaker was about Dex’s height, a tall man with broad shoulders under an evening jacket of good quality. He had medium brown hair, dark and laughing eyes but, almost inexplicably, it was difficult to tell anything more about him because he was wearing a tidy black mask that, like ours, covered only the area around his eyes. You wouldn’t have thought that small black mask would make so much of a difference, but somehow it did; completely obscuring
the essential something that would have made the man an individual to me. I knew that our own masks would have the same effect.

His voice was surprisingly deep, even for someone of his height, and it was warm and welcoming. I figured that might be the reason he’d been given the assignment to greet people at the door. “It’s early yet, though you’re certainly not the first to arrive.”

Dex handed over our invitation. The man gave it a cursory glance and handed it back.

“I’d start in the ballroom,” he said, indicating the direction we should follow. “You can get a drink and look the food over. But you’ll find most of the house open tonight, and the gardens, as well. Follow your pleasure and have a wonderful time.”

Once there, I guessed that the room our greeter had described as the ballroom served many functions at different times. With very few modifications, it could have been a large dining room—with row upon row of masquers raising toasts—or even a theater suitable for live productions, the revels Wyndham had told us about. In its ballroom function, however, a ten-piece orchestra commanded the far wall. I couldn’t see who tonight’s orchestra was from my vantage on entry but it was immediately apparent that they were wonderful.

Small tables and stools flanked the walls, providing places for people to sit and chat and perhaps have a drink while watching the dancers. It was early yet—just nine o’clock—so there weren’t many dancers when we arrived. I suspected that would change as the night wore on, though, while the champagne—and other drinks—flowed and inhibitions loosened. Food was already laid out, though. I could see the tables from across the room and I looked forward to a closer inspection.

On one side of the room a series of doors led out onto a verandah and from there to a garden. Lanterns were lit and food
and drink were laid out there as well. Beautifully dressed masked couples flowed in and out of those doors like so much liquid.

I made a bee-line for the eats. Dex pressed a glass of champagne into my hand while I looked the food over. Seeing all that food made me a little sad. If only Marjorie could have been there to see and enjoy it, I thought. It was so beautiful. Almost too beautiful to eat, though I didn’t let that stop me.

One platter alternated eggs and small artichokes, both filled with crabmeat and shrimp and arranged so prettily it looked like modern art. A molded fish salad glittered on its own platter, the salad an iridescent green, with flakes of salmon apparent through the gelatinous surface. The whole was covered with a lovely cucumber sauce and the green against green took my breath away.

An iced bowl held a pile of glistening black caviar. Next to the bowl were tiny pancakes
a la russe
and soured cream. I thought of making myself a confection of these ingredients as indicated, but feared I’d get the order wrong.

There was one beautiful tray that featured bite-sized tomato aspics filled with cream cheese and anchovy and I helped myself to one of these. The salt of the one perfectly complimented the creamy texture of the other while all those glorious flavors were encased in softly flavored glossy red. In that moment, it seemed the most perfect bite of food I’d ever enjoyed. These things—and more—were all served in the buffet style: one could go as often as one liked and eat as much as one could hold. But there was more food yet. Masked serving girls bearing trays moved among the guests, some offering glasses of champagne, others hot canapés with creamed oysters, crab-meat as well as tiny little perfect sandwiches featuring pineapple with ham, egg with almond and other clever combinations.

“You gonna stop eating when you’re full,” Dex asked, “or
when your arms get tired?” He stood over me and grinned while I helped myself to a small plateful of the molded fish salad drizzled with some of the cucumber dressing.

“A girl has to keep up her strength,” I said a little hotly once I’d finished my mouthful. “So what’s your big plan?” I asked, thinking to divert him from my snack.

“Well, here’s what I figure,” he said, taking a crab-stuffed artichoke off my plate and nibbling it with surprising delicacy while we spoke, “everyone is going to be busy playing at being something they’re not. You and I will mosey around on our own and just see what we can see. Talk to people. Don’t worry about being found out: we got our invitation right enough. It’s not like we had to sneak in.”

I nodded, glad he’d reminded me of this. Despite the fact that I was both hungry and eating, I’d been somewhat shy about this whole escapade. Although, it wasn’t like you could tell that from the way I was stuffing my face.

“Let’s do this,” Dex said, “we’ll mosey around on our own, like I said. But we’ll meet back here in an hour, compare notes. OK?”

“Sounds good to me.” Before I shoved off, though, I risked it: I took one of the tiny pancakes and delicately dropped about a teaspoon of the shiny fish eggs on it, topping the whole with another teaspoon of the soured cream. Dex watched while I popped this in my mouth and chewed thoughtfully.

“Not bad,” I pronounced, reaching for my champagne. “Salty.” Dex pulled a face that said you couldn’t pay him to stick that in his mouth and headed in the direction of the foyer. I had a hunch he’d poke his head in downstairs, just to see what there was to be seen. I headed over to one of the windows that led to the verandah and the garden, wanting a gander of what was beyond all that expensive glass.

The verandah was host to cigar smokers and couples who looked as though they’d like to find a place to tryst. Though I’ve
no fondness for cigars, I joined the smokers: I hadn’t brought the right sort of decoy to be playing at the other.

“Would you care for one of my Cubans?” Though the mask made it difficult to judge accurately, I gauged the man’s age to be between fifty and sixty, though dapper. The kind of man used to making headway with girls my age. He was nice-looking, too, I could see that, mask or no. There was something vaguely familiar about him: something in the shape of his head, I thought. And maybe the cut of his shoulders. I couldn’t place it, though. Nor could I shake the feeling.

“No thank you,” I said. Then, lowering my voice, “I don’t actually smoke,” allowing him to draw his own conclusions. He did.

“Ah,” he said. “Out here to escape someone.” It wasn’t a question. I just shrugged, noncommittal. He accepted it as a positive reply, which was fine by me. “But say,” he said, “you look familiar to me.”

“I was just thinking the same about you.”

“Have I seen you in anything?”

I shook my head. “I’m not an actress.”

He arched his eyebrows at me. That is, I could not actually see his eyebrows due to the mask he was wearing, but the rest of his face stretched around the way faces do when eyebrows are raised.

“You’re not?” said he. “What then?”

I touched a finger to my own mask. “There’s a reason we’re wearing these, is there not?”

He laughed, taking my meaning. “There is. All right then, can I at least know your name?”

“You can … you can call me Kitty,” I said, inexplicably reaching for the detested nickname rather than my real name. Something about the mask called it up.

“All right, Kitty,” he extended his hand, “I’m Baron.”

I shook the hand he offered, but my mind was reeling.
That
was why he looked familiar. Of course. Baron Sutherland had been a major star when I was a child. He still got roles now, but they were secondary ones—bad guys, fathers, bank presidents. In person I could feel the presence that had made him a star. There was a kind of subdued intensity about him. You had the feeling that, most of the time, he got what he wanted.

“You should maybe have made up a name, Baron. That’s a pretty distinctive moniker. So now I know who you are, mask or no.”

He laughed again, sounding unconcerned. “There are worse things.” Then, “Walk with me?” he said, not waiting for an answer, but steering me down the verandah stairs and into the garden. I trotted along obediently. A movie star, I thought. Imagine! I took his arm as we made our way around the garden path, trying not to look as though I were hanging on his every word.

He chatted as we walked. “Anyway, you’re the one who was cloaking herself in mystery, not I. Let’s face it: for someone as old as I have become to have a chance with someone as young and beautiful as you,” he stopped and took my hand as he said this last. Raised it to his lips. “I need every bit of magic I can muster. Are you impressed? Well, that’s just fine.” He smiled at me. Winked. I could see that wink through his mask. “That’s just what I want.” Then he led us on again, back down the garden path.

I laughed, as well. Drawn to him despite myself. None of this was getting me what I’d come here for. But—oh!—I was having a wonderful time.

“So, hmmmm,” he was saying. “You won’t tell me what you do. Will you tell me who you came with?”

I cocked my head at him, the mystery of the evening washing me in an unfamiliar coquettishness. But it was all the answer he seemed to need.

“All right then,” he said, “I’ll have to guess. Look at you:
tall and reed slender. Elegant, certainly. Aristocratic if I hold my head in a certain way. So I say … you’re a princess—from Russia—and you don’t dare tell me your identity. You’re here in exile and have been since babyhood.”