Design for Dying (26 page)

“That's fantastic!” I gave her a hug. “A year of checking punctuation and they finally realized what a great writer you are. What's the story?”

“You're going to love this. Your pal Addison Rice. I suggested we do the piece you ran past him. America's number-one movie fan, host to the stars.
Modern Movie
and Addison both went for it! No mention of Tommy and Ruby, of course. But here's the kicker. I've been invited to his next party!”

My smile, sincere though it was, became a pain to hold in place. “Consider me officially jealous. What's the theme? Do you have to dress like Thomas Jefferson and go on a scavenger hunt?”

“Oh, it's worse than that. It's a ‘come as you are' party. Addison sent photographers with the invitations. Your picture's snapped as you get the envelope, and that's how you have to show up. They caught me yesterday with this lousy pencil behind my ear. Now nobody will let me take it out. At least I had on a nice dress. That paprika one, with the brown collar and belt? That's what I'll be wearing come Saturday night.”

“You're lucky. If they'd gone to Mrs. Lindros's you could have been wearing an apron with flour all over your hands.”

“I feel queasy just contemplating that. Now what are you doing here?”

My tale of woe made it Kay's turn to hug me. “And here I am gloating. I feel like a heel. What are you going to do?”

“Cry in my tap water then read the help wanted ads.”

“The want ads are for saps. I'll get word to Ready and send up some smoke signals of my own.”

Ruby had tipped me to the fact months ago.
In this town, mermaid, it's who you know.

“What about Edith Head?” Kay asked. “She could get you into Paramount easy.”

“Doing what? I can't draw a lick.”

“They have other departments. It's a movie studio, you know. They make pictures there. Use her ready ear to promote yourself a position.”

It was a savvy suggestion, one I'd file away for future reference. “First Edith would probably like to hear about last night's run-in with Tommy Carpa.”

Kay planted herself behind Max Bittner's desk. Aside from the portion of her face obscured by a loving cup won at a La Monica Ballroom dance contest, she looked very editorial. “You've been holding out. Dish.”

*   *   *

ON THE WAY
home I picked up the afternoon papers, the brutal execution of Tremayne's display window on every front page. Kay may have lacked faith in the want ads, but a girl had to start somewhere. Mrs. Quigley, sweeping the front steps with more élan than elbow grease, nodded at the bundle under my arm. “Sending news of your exploits to the folks?”

“That's right.” No sense alarming her about my ability to pay the rent yet.

Inside I changed into a faded green housedress, hem drooping in despondency, and an old gray sweatshirt. The knock came halfway through the first
HELP WANTED—FEMALE
column. Vi burst into the apartment. “They're out of their minds at that store, letting you go.”

I shut the door behind her. “Hush. I don't want Mrs. Quigley to know. How'd you find out?”

“I'd been thinking about last night, so I phoned Tremayne's hoping we could have lunch. Some stuffy fellow told me ‘Miss Frost is no longer in Tremayne's employ.'”

“Yes, I'm a lady of leisure now, reading the want ads and realizing I have no skills that will land me a job.”

“I know a nightclub that needs a new waitress.”

“You quit? Good for you!”

“Tommy won't agree. But nuts to him, anyway.”

“Then we should both be checking the paper.”

“Find me a nice secretarial position. The kind where the boss marries me within a year.”

“I circled one of those earlier.”

“What pretty flowers! Hey, you've got two!”

“Want one? I was supposed to give one away.” And should have. Currying favor with Mr. Valentine might not have warded off the ax, but it wouldn't have hurt. In Edith I had the equivalent of a fairy godmother, yet I had shunned her guidance.

As Vi lifted a vase, the strap on her green jumper slipped. She tugged it back over the sleeve of her blouse. “This never fit. I shouldn't have bought the darn thing.”

“It's adorable. Your problem is your bosom is too big.”

“Too big? First time I ever heard that.” She adjusted the opposite strap before it tumbled.

“If you moved the buttons down that wouldn't happen.”

“You're one to be giving fashion advice. You look like something the cat wouldn't bother to drag in.”

We started perusing the ads, the situations situation so dire I was overjoyed when another knock heralded the next visitor to darken my doorstep. He was a short man who looked like he'd been forced into semi-decent seersucker at gunpoint. A sheen of exertion glowed on his broad forehead.

“Lillian Frost?” When I confirmed, he exhaled in relief. “You're a tough one to track down.”

“Why are you looking for me?”

Up snapped his arm with Prussian precision, an envelope in his hand. “To deliver this.”

He stepped back at the same time. I trailed him into the corridor without thinking about it. “What is it?”

“Open it and see.”

Another strategic retreat accompanied the instruction, and still I kept following. I heard Vi charging across the floor as I took the envelope. The deliveryman's eyes shifted toward the stairs. I sensed motion there an instant too late.

The world went white as Vi reached me. Only the feel of creamy vellum paper kept me anchored to the earth.

“What's happening?” That was Vi.

“You're pulling my leg.” Another voice, not the deliveryman's but somehow familiar.

The light from the flashbulb faded by degrees. The first thing I saw was the writing on the card, which my fingers had automatically extracted from the envelope. Across the top were two words.
Say cheese
. Underneath, an address I recognized.

My next thoughts were twinned.
I am being invited to Addison Rice's party. And I look like hell
.

Vi snatched the card from my fingertips. The world continued to reassert itself. I hadn't been hallucinating. The stairwell shutterbug not only sounded like Ken Nolan, he looked like him, too.

“You're back,” I said to him. “Have you seen Beckett?”

“No. And whatever you do, don't let on you saw me.”

The deliveryman turned to Ken. “You know this one?”

“She got me eighty-sixed from Paramount. She's the reason I had to take this cockamamie job.”

“Don't blame me,” I said. “You're the one who got mixed up in Ruby's shenanigans.”

“And don't knock the job, either.” The deliveryman gripped his lapels. “Money is money.”

“Can somebody tell me what's going on?” Vi studied the card she'd taken from me. “You're being invited to a party?”

“That's right, girlie,” Addison's postman said. “Only proviso is you come as you are right this minute.”

“But I'm a mess.” I held my arms out from my sides.

Ken snorted as he reached into his camera bag. “Serves you right for answering the door dressed like Ma Kettle.”

“And we've got the picture to prove it,” the deliveryman said. “If you're not wearing what you've got on now, back down the hill you'll go.”

“Am I in the picture, too?” Vi asked. “I didn't see the flashbulb pop, so I was probably looking the wrong way.”

Ken's hand snaked out of the bag toward his camera. I glimpsed the bulb concealed in his fingers and realized what he was up to. I pulled Vi back inside my apartment and slammed the door as Ken leaped forward.

“Vi
is
in the photo, isn't she?” I hollered through the closed door.

“I am? Does that mean I get to go to the party, too?”

Ken and his partner held a whispered conference in the hall as Vi began bouncing in excitement, sending both of her jumper straps sagging.

“Tell me the truth, Ken. Can you even see what I'm wearing? Is that why you were trying to take another photo?”

His sigh carried through reasonably solid oak. “I won't know until I print it. But Blondie was all over you.”

“Look, miss, we're going to need another photo,” the deliveryman wheedled. “Won't take a minute.”

“Nothing doing.” Vi stood with her hands on her hips, spoiling for a fight, buxom flyweight division. “We've got the invite. You've got the photo. We're coming as we are and taking our chances.”

Another hushed squabble in the hall, ended by Kenneth's associate. “We don't have time to argue. We got too many of these damn envelopes to deliver.”

“Is the name Minot on your list?” I yelled.

“We hit that pile yesterday.” The deliveryman cackled. “That'll be some picture. The wife mad as a hornet in her gardening clothes, the husband laughing his ass off while ogling the neighbor lady.”

 

27

BARNEY GROFF EMERGED
from Edith Head's office like a sword from a scabbard, steely and ready to inflict damage. He puffed on an excessively fragrant cigar and glowered at me, trying to remember why he'd chosen to forget my name.

Edith followed him out, features as always imperturbable. The square neckline of her black dress showcased a loop of gold supporting a large amber stone. As Groff stalked off, Edith apologized for making me wait. It wasn't like I had anywhere else to be. Besides, I needed time to figure out how to slip my ulterior motive into the conversation.

Once Vi and I had been certain that Ken and his cohort were gone, we'd emptied my closet of its contents and laid the pickings on the bed. All things considered, my best option would be wrapping myself in the duvet.

Vi held up an ash-blue rayon gown with shirred sleeves and a tie back sash. I'd worn it to my first nightclub, and every formal event since. “Is this your only gown?”

“It was the latest thing three years ago.”

She patted my arm. “It's had a swell run. But three years is a long time.”

“I have to look my best for Addison's party. A Gimbels special circa 1934 won't cut it.” That's when I got the bright idea to pick Edith's brain for fashion advice, provided I could find a way to broach the subject.

Edith waved me into a chair. “First things first. Did you really throw yourself in front of a bullet for Armand Troncosa?”

“Hardly. I threw myself on the ground and let the bullets fall where they may.”

“Smart girl.”

Edith had been tracking the scant developments in the papers. I passed along the tidbits I'd gleaned from Gene: both Winton Beckett and Tommy Carpa still unpresent and unaccounted for; inconsistencies in Armand Troncosa's itinerary making it conceivable he was in Los Angeles when Ruby was killed; Diana and Laurence denying any knowledge of Beckett.

“So an abundance of suspects,” Edith said. “Marvelous.”

“Maybe Gene was right to focus on Laurence if Beckett has the goods on him.”

“That doesn't mean Mr. Minot killed Ruby. There's another possibility. Ruby was likely pressuring him to film her screen test if she viewed it as her escape hatch.” Edith polished her glasses. “Suppose her imprecations succeeded.”

“You—you think Laurence
already
shot the test?”

“Wasn't that his play when he attempted to sway you? He boasted he could arrange your test with one phone call. Wouldn't he do likewise for a woman he was involved with intimately? If such footage exists, it would expose Mr. Minot as a fool—and link him conclusively to a murdered girl.”

“Could Beckett have the test in his possession?”

“No, the footage—again, if it exists—is at Lodestar Pictures. Where no one understands its significance because the actress featured is identified as Natalie Szabo, not Ruby Carroll. But knowledge of its existence would be sufficient for Mr. Beckett to blackmail Mr. Minot.”

Edith was not merely theorizing a ticking time bomb that could destroy Laurence's career. She was suggesting that in a vault off Western Avenue lay a few feet of celluloid representing Ruby's final screen appearance—and my sole chance to meet Natalie. I knew I'd do anything to clap eyes on it, the prospect propelling me from my seat. “You've got to tell Gene.”

“I'm afraid I can do nothing of the sort. You saw Mr. Groff's histrionic exit. He none too subtly informed me the studios are monitoring Detective Morrow's investigation. If word were to get out about police interest in the test, some unscrupulous employee at Lodestar might dispose of it to spare them the publicity.”

“That can't happen!” I didn't realize I'd yelled until Edith gripped my hand to console me.

“It won't. I'll try to confirm the test exists. Quietly. That may take time, though, and my concern is Mr. Minot will become desperate and attempt to destroy the footage himself. If only we could keep an eye on him.”

I seized the segue. “I have a chance to see Laurence this weekend.” I told her about Addison's invitation and my resultant dilemma.

“I don't see the problem. If your clothes can't be seen in the photo, your options are endless.”

“There's the rub. Nothing I own suits the occasion.”

Edith peered at me in disappointment, having no truck with transparent self-pity. “You're completely wrong. It's not a debutante ball, for goodness sake. It's a Hollywood party. Calling attention to yourself is the last thing you want to do.”

“So I don't have to wear a fabulous gown?”

“I forbid you to.”

“Right. Dungarees and a halter top it is.”

“Don't be ludicrous. All day long actresses are forced into the frippery people like me design for them.” She pulled out her sketchbook and paged to a drawing of an elaborate Elizabethan gown. “A laced corset, hoops, and five pounds of skirts. After wearing something like that for hours, the emphasis is on comfort while still looking good. Understatement, that's the order of the evening.”