Design for Dying (11 page)

“You want to quibble over details? If there's a shred of truth in it, Armand's a likely suspect in Ruby's murder.”

Assuming, per Detective Morrow's caution, that he was the
right
Armand. “What does Armand do, exactly?” I asked.

“He's a playboy. They don't
do
anything. His main interest, as Jimmie Fidler mentioned, is polo. You may recall Argentina took the gold medal at the Olympics last year.”

“I cheered at every game.”

“I believe they're called matches, kiddo. Armand reminds people of his countrymen's triumph at every opportunity. He was in Berlin for the whole show. His goal is to make polo popular in these United States, and I wish him luck with that.”

“If he puts numbers on the horses and sells red hots in the stands, I'll take a flier on it. Too bad your impressive work is for naught. Detective Morrow thinks we're barking up the wrong Argentine. Even Edith couldn't convince him.”

“Nuts. I'm staring at Armand's address in Whitley Heights.”

The idea was out of my mouth before I could consider the wisdom of it. “What say we take a look at this Armand character ourselves? We won't do anything foolish. I know you're curious. You could try spinning this into a story you can—”

“Honey, why are you tying up the line with this palaver when I could be calling Ready right now?”

*   *   *

WHEN THE SILENT
screen was king, many of its stars dwelled close to the firmament in Whitley Heights. The glamorously precarious neighborhood, perched on the hillside overlooking Hollywood Boulevard, had been the first celebrity enclave in Los Angeles. The houses on its narrow, winding streets had a Mediterranean flavor, all red slate roofs and broad windows. They offered seclusion a stone's throw from the studios. The big names had since decamped for the more extravagant pastures of Beverly Hills, but once upon a time everyone who mattered lived up here. Charlie Chaplin, Harold Lloyd, Rudolph Valentino.

“A few famous faces are still around,” I nattered from the backseat of Ready's car. “Francis X. Bushman never left.”

“I think we just drove past him delivering the mail,” Kay said.

“Beautiful up this way,” Ready said. “I heard tell the big parties were thrown by Eugene O'Brien.”

Kay snorted. “How do you two remember these people? Makes me think less of this Armand that he's getting a nosebleed in the boonies.”

Ready kept the car tooling toward the heavens. The edges of the roads were lined with iron posts linked by chains, decorative reminders that should you lose purchase, the plunge to Grauman's Chinese Theatre was a long one. The hillside was gaudy with flora, bougainvillea and wisteria in abundance. I feared I'd get drunk on the scent of orange blossoms.

“Hollywood Bowl coming up.” Ready swung the car around a hairpin curve and the stadium appeared below us, waiting to fill up with music and light. “Seats aren't the best, but you can hear the concerts from here.”

“Troncosa's place ahoy.” Kay indicated a villa shaded by olive trees and protected by a wrought-iron gate. Ready slowed as much as he dared. The house felt shuttered even from the street. Around the side we passed a garage and a wooden door like a chapel's entrance set in a white stone wall. Both were closed. Ready kept the car in motion.

“Not being skilled in detection as you ladies are, I'm unsure how to proceed. I'm guessing you don't want to knock on the man's door. And it's not like we can stop and have a scout.”

We passed one of the staircases connecting the hillside's four levels. “Let me out at the top of those stairs,” I said. “I'll walk past the house and give it a closer look. You can pick me up on the way back down.”

“The ol' tourist gambit,” Kay said. “Never fails.”

Within seconds the sound of Ready's car faded, leaving me with only hummingbirds for accompaniment. I trod carefully down a flight of stairs that, like all of Whitley Heights, was picturesque and criminally vertiginous. On reaching its base I offered a word of thanks to Saint Elmo, patron of those who worked at altitude. Also of women undergoing childbirth, but I was saving that card for a later date.

At Troncosa's gate I stopped to adjust the strap on my sandal. The house remained eerily still. No newspapers on the porch, no uncollected milk bottles, every window closed. Nary a sign of life.

On I strolled, just a gal from out of town enjoying the sunshine. The scene at the side of the house was also unchanged. I crossed the street and lingered at the summit of the staircase leading down. Hibiscus and cedar scented the breeze as I gazed at the sign touting the Hollywoodland development, the letters shimmering in the distance a promise beckoning you onward. The neighborhood was both bewitching and benighted, the Garden of Eden after the serpent had set up shop.

Behind me, the garage door opened. I took my time turning around.

The car in Troncosa's garage was a Pierce-Arrow brougham in either blue or gray, the shadows masking its shade. Whereas the man who buffed its hood looked burnished, like something left in the sun until its true color had been revealed. His thick eyebrows were colonies under the protection of the motherland of jet-black hair atop his head. He moved with the preoccupied purpose of someone mentally sorting a list of errands.

If only I'd bothered to cook up a plan for the wholly likely eventuality of someone exiting the house.

I walked toward the garage. With each step, my hips drifted farther from their moorings. I found myself chewing a phantom piece of gum.

“How ya doin'?” I squeaked. “This Armand Troncosa's house?”

Dear God. In voice and manner I had become Louise Halloran, the good-time girl who'd lived down the hall from us in Flushing. Perhaps I had stumbled onto one of the secrets of acting. I couldn't create a character out of whole cloth, but impressions were a cakewalk.

The man squinted at me. He didn't speak with an accent, his voice more lightly dusted with Latin inflections. “Yes. May I help you?”

“Are you Armand?”

“Alas, I am not.” The man slouched against the car, amused. The errands could wait.

I pouted in disappointment. “Is the man of the house here?”

“You wish to sell him brushes, perhaps? Armand is abroad at the moment. May I ask your name?”

“Lil,” I said. I realized what I was doing: playing a brassier, dimmer version of myself, the me who would have stayed Ruby's friend. “Your turn.”

“Esteban Riordan, at your service.”

“That's a funny kind of a handle.” Life really was simpler when you could say whatever you wanted.

Esteban, fortunately, did not take offense. “Equal parts Spanish and Irish. My family moved to Argentina decades ago.”

“I love Argentina. They won the gold medal in polo at the Olympics last year, y'know.”

“I do indeed.” Esteban puffed with pride. “My brother Luis is a member of the team. An alternate, but still.”

“Really? I wish polo was more popular. You never hear about any of the matches. So are you and Armand friends?”

“The closest. I also work for him. I'm his unofficial majordomo, you might say.”

No acting required here. “Major … domo?”

“I tend to the small aspects of Armand's life so he may focus on the larger ones, like bringing polo the audience it deserves. And you, Lil? How do you know Armand?”

I had to proceed with caution. I desperately wanted to confirm Armand and by extension Natalie were Ruby's new highbred companions, but without compromising Detective Morrow's efforts. I wondered what Louise Halloran would do. Came the answer:
Play demure. As broadly as possible.
I batted my eyes and kicked at the oil stain on the driveway. “See, I don't really know him. My friend Ruby does, and she said I should make his acquaintance. Do you know my friend Ruby?”

The name had no effect on Esteban whatsoever. “Armand has met so many people it's difficult to keep them straight. She has been to the house, your friend?”

“That's right. She met Armand through her friend Natalie. Do you know Natalie?”

Some unruly emotion—possibly fear—flickered across Esteban's face only to vanish beneath an implacable mask, like a skim of ice forming over an ominous dark shape in the water. He volleyed my question back. “Do
you
know Natalie?”

“I—no, but—”

“But your friend does. Ruby. Has Ruby seen Natalie? Does she know where Natalie is? Who Natalie is with?”

Stumped for a safe answer, I stared at him. Esteban eliminated the distance between us. “Please. You must tell me.”

“I, I can't. I don't know.”

Esteban placed his hand on my upper arm as if he were clinging to me. “Unless … has Natalie sent you to test Armand's affections? Has she?”

I was flummoxed. Any semblance of Louise Halloran was lost to me now.

Esteban saw the car before I did. Ready brought it to a halt and opened his door. I slipped Esteban's grasp and darted around him. “That's my ride. Excuse me.”

Ready waited until I was in the car before getting back in himself. Esteban stepped into the street to watch us go.

“You all right, Lillian?” Ready asked.

“Is that Armand?” Kay demanded.

“I'm fine. That wasn't Armand. It was his majordomo. Sort of a butler.”

“No, it's not,” Kay said. “It's the head of the household. Butler is a completely different job.”

“Is it?” Ready peered at her. “Then what's a valet?”

“We'll look it up later. The question is, did we find our Armand?”

“I'm sure of it,” I said. “I just can't prove it yet.”

“Still? Did you learn
anything
?”

“Yes. Armand and Natalie are both travelling, and not together. In fact, they may no longer be a couple.”

“Doesn't that make Armand an interesting figure,” Kay said.

“I thought so.” I turned to Ready. “Home, James.”

“You don't want to go to work?” he teased.

“You'll never make majordomo with that attitude,” I said.

 

12

THE STRAINS OF
“A Pretty Girl Is Like a Melody” thundered into the hallway. Time for Mrs. Quigley's afternoon exercises. My landlady walked the length of her parlor like she was balancing a pail of nitroglycerine on her head. A trouper through and through, Mrs. Q religiously practiced her Ziegfeld walk should she and Billie Dove be needed in the Follies once more.

She pirouetted to face me. I flinched as if the nitro were about to go, then again when I saw the rag-doll circles of rouge she'd applied to her cheeks.

“Lillian! Your caller tried twice more and still won't leave so much as her name! You know I loathe interrupting my routine.”

Did I. “Sorry, Mrs. Q. What does this woman sound like?”

“Very breathless, very intense,” Mrs. Quigley said, evincing both qualities herself. Who else in my orbit possessed a flair for the dramatic and my telephone number?

*   *   *

“ISN'T IT FUNNY
you should call?” Diana Galway trilled down the line. “I was just thinking about you.”

Her greeting didn't indicate whether Lodestar Pictures' promising new discovery and Ruby's steady lunch partner had been dialing me like mad all day. I'd planned on telephoning Diana anyway. She was the sole entry in my slender address book who might know Armand and Natalie. A little voice chirped that I was overdue at work, but I was in no mood to tote that barge for Tremayne's now.

“I'm still simply shattered about Ruby,” Diana said without prompting. “It was such a help to go to Mrs. Lindros's and see some of the girls again. The poor things. I wonder where they find the strength to pound the pavement every day. To struggle.”

“You did it, too. You're giving them hope.”

“Yes, but I had an ace in the hole. I
knew
better things were in store. On my fifteenth birthday, a fortune-teller told me there was a bright star in my future.” She paused expectantly, but I had no idea what she was talking about. She fed me my cue again. “A bright star…”

“Oh, Lodestar. I get it. Say, that's a good story. You should tell that to one of the magazines.”

“I did. It'll be in the next
Photoplay
. It's so sad Ruby won't get a chance to see it.”

“I spent the morning with the detective investigating the case.”

“Did you?” Baiting actresses was almost too easy. Diana presumably feared her reputation might be tarnished by the Alley Angel Affair. The prospect of inside information proved irresistible. “I could use a friendly ear. I don't suppose you could come over.”

“Sure. What streetcar line are you on?”

“We're in Beverly Hills, dear. Take a taxi. I'll pay for it.”

I was being driven everywhere today. A girl had better not get used to this.

*   *   *

THE MINOTS, APPROPRIATELY,
lived in a house out of a movie. Set back on the property, curved drive depositing visitors before squat marble columns. It merited a whistle from my cabdriver, at any rate.

The maid who answered the door sported a crooked nose and a shapeless uniform that made her look like a bag of bruised potatoes. Even the lascivious Laurence Minot wouldn't be tempted. Perhaps Diana was smarter than I thought.

As I trailed the maid down the hall something reminded me of Sunday mass with Aunt Joyce. Incense, that was it. The scent became overwhelming once she showed me into a small room. Diana sat on one of several tufted red silk pillows on the floor. She wore a blue kimono, legs crossed beneath her. The incense burned in a porcelain Buddha, smiling to himself on a table off to the side. He probably thought the pillows were a hoot, too.

“I've taken up the ancient Eastern custom of meditation,” Diana announced, eyes squeezed shut as if warding off a migraine.