Design for Dying (9 page)

A maroon Buick glided to a stop as I dragged the valise to the curb. A liveried chauffeur confirmed my identity and tucked the suitcase into the car's trunk. He grunted once with exertion for my benefit. I decided being whisked through crowded streets like a pasha made it worth my sworn oath to Mr. Valentine to work late sorting a shipment of undergarments.

The Paramount gates had lost none of their magic. I shivered as I passed through them for the second time in three days. The driver pulled up in front of the Wardrobe building. Edith stood by the front door. “Faster than the streetcar and more civilized,” she declared. She instructed the driver, who had hoisted the suitcase out of the trunk, to follow her.

To my delight she marched us back to Travis Banton's salon, my new favorite place. A clothing rack waited alongside the three-panel mirror. The chauffeur placed the suitcase atop the sofa, touched the brim of his cap, and withdrew.

Edith eyed the case. “We're fortunate it wasn't locked.”

“Who said it wasn't locked?”

I got only a quarter-raise of a single eyebrow in response. We had work to do.

We started with the silver lamé gown. Edith arranged it on a hanger and hooked it over the top of the mirror, sprinkling light throughout the room. We excavated the suitcase in silence, me removing items and Edith hanging them up, putting the matching shoes under each outfit. A glance into the jewelry bag merited a full raise of both her eyebrows. Once we finished, Edith stepped back to take it all in.

“I can't thank you enough, Lillian.”

“Are they from the studio?”

“Every last piece save some of the shoes. Look here.” From the garment rack she pulled out a suit in luscious burgundy, then held it next to its double from the case. “The script calls for the leading lady to be thrown into a swimming pool. We made multiple suits for multiple takes. The film hasn't started production yet.” She took off her glasses, bouncing them against her palm. “You understand why this is so worrisome.”

I waited for inspiration to strike. Alas, inspiration was still waiting for the streetcar. “Not entirely,” I admitted.

Edith stretched out her arm to indicate the costumes adorning the mirrors. “All the pieces you discovered are from our active wardrobes, for films currently shooting or just finished. Meaning they were made
after
Ruby was let go. If they were in her possession—”

A light dawned. “She had an accomplice.”

“Exactly. Someone with access to Wardrobe who's still in the employ of Paramount Pictures.”

“Mr. Groff isn't going to care for that bulletin.”

“I'm none too thrilled about it myself. We'd better alert the police as well.” Edith scrutinized me over the top of her glasses. “Don't be surprised if Detective Morrow isn't pleased that you came to me before him.”

“Where else was I going to go? We had to find out if the clothes were stolen first.” The prospect of arousing Detective Morrow's wrath hadn't occurred to me. My palms began to sweat.

“I'm sure we'll be able to convince him you did the right thing,” Edith said. “Besides, I talked you into it. I can be quite persuasive, you know. It's a requirement for this job. And perhaps we can deliver even more to the good detective. I took the liberty of making inquiries about Ruby and her time here. She didn't make many friends, from what I gather.”

“That doesn't come as a shock.”

“One name I did hear was Kenneth Nolan. A studio photographer, so he can come and go from storage as he pleases. He and Ruby were seen having coffee a few times. You've already met him.”

“I have?”

“Yes, on your last visit. Mr. Nolan was the photographer during Gracie Allen's fitting. He wasn't scheduled to be, yet there he was.”

“You think he heard the police were coming to meet with you and he wanted to know why.”

“I think he did more than that. He accidentally took a photograph of you and Detective Morrow. I don't believe his finger slipped. I believe Mr. Nolan wanted a record of who was interested in Ruby. Pure speculation on my part, of course.”

Something in her tone of voice caught my attention. “But it doesn't have to be.”

“Mr. Nolan's boss John Engstead is a friend of mine. John took the only photos of me I can bear to look at. He managed to coax out my inner coquette. A trick requiring great patience.” She glanced at her reflection and shuddered. “I arranged with John that our photographer be available today. While I telephone Detective Morrow, you fetch Mr. Nolan. I'd like him to explain how Paramount property that is my responsibility ended up in the real world.”

*   *   *

EDITH DREW A
map of the lot on the back of a discarded sketch. I stayed true to its course, faltering only when my path crossed that of a balding man immaculately attired in shades of brown, barking orders at a horde of people marching exactly three paces behind him. His voice, what God would sound like if he were your accountant, was familiar from
Lux Radio Theater
. I stepped aside to allow Cecil B. DeMille and his personal army by to storm the studio commissary.

At John Engstead's studio I knocked on the door and heard a faint “It's open” in reply. Entering the large, mostly bare space I noticed a length of wall, complete with fireplace and mantel, trundling across the floor. Only the fingertips clutching either side betrayed that it wasn't moving under its own power.

“Kenneth Nolan?” I asked.

“
Un momentito,
” the wall said. It sounded bored.

Several
momentitos
later the young man who'd taken photos of Gracie Allen and of me emerged from behind the faux wall. He was not very tall and moderately handsome, with black hair and brown eyes that fell just short of piercing. He recognized me at once, then pretended he didn't.

“I'm Ken Nolan.” His handshake was a moist disappointment. “What can I do for you?”

“Edith Head would like to see you in Wardrobe with your camera.”

“And what does Edith Head want with me and my camera?”

I rolled my eyes, placing a hand on my hip so I resembled a peeved teapot. “As if I'd know. Nobody tells me anything.”

“A feeling with which I am all too familiar.” He snatched a rag from the floor and buffed his two-tone wingtips. “Didn't I see you there the other day?”

“Yes. I'm working with Edith.” Technically, not a lie. Score one for me and the nuns.

Ken seemed to buy it. “And are you enjoying that?”

“Who wouldn't? She's such a talented designer.”

“Edith wishes she were a designer. She's one step up from a pattern cutter.”

“Have you watched any of the films she's worked on? The gowns are spectacular.”

“Then they're Travis Banton's. That's who she'd like to be, but she's just a journeyman. Journeywoman. Is that a word?”

I waited by the door as Ken shut off the lights and snagged his camera bag. As long as he was coming along, I wouldn't argue with him.

But Ken couldn't help testing my patience. “Don't get me wrong. Edith Head is a perfectly nice woman. But she's too conservative. She lacks the temperament of a true artist like Travis. If it wasn't for his indulgence, Edith would be lucky to be working at a department store. Hey, slow down!”

 

10

WE TRAVERSED THE
lot without incident. Edith waited in the shade outside the Wardrobe building as we approached, a dark-haired man at her side.

“Oh, marvelous,” Ken said. “This guy and his antics.”

The man must have been telling a whale of a tale, because Edith rocked back and forth laughing. He leaped up and imitated an airplane, swooping in a circle then sputtering into a crash dive that landed him in his seat with a jolt. “So as parties go,” the man said, “it wasn't bad.”

Edith caught her breath and made the introductions. “May I present Preston Sturges.” Mr. Sturges rose to take my hand, clicking his heels together. Or trying to; his woven kidskin loafers looked soft enough to sleep on. His wide shoulders filled out a well-tailored jacket with huge checks. A trim mustache balanced jauntily over a wide grin. “Preston is a writer, but if you ask me he'd make a marvelous actor.”

“You know it's the director's chair or bust. Any job that comes with its own furniture is the one for me.”

Ken declared himself a great admirer of Mr. Sturges's work, thus confirming his status as a fink. Mr. Sturges looked accustomed to such praise.

“Come by the café some evening, Edie. Bring Charles. Lovely dinner, on the house.”

“You won't be open long making offers like that.”

“Part of the plan to build name recognition for Snyder's. Someday that spot will be a Hollywood landmark. I'll leave you to your business.” He exited with an elaborate courtier's bow.

Edith executed a precise turn toward Ken. “Mr. Nolan. Thank you for coming.”

In Edith's presence, Ken brimmed with bonhomie. “Happy to, Miss Head. I hope my photographs did justice to that lovely Gracie Allen ensemble you designed.”

“Your usual fine work. Please, come this way.”

“This way” didn't lead to Banton's office but to a third floor room marked
WARDROBE STORAGE
. Edith made a production of gaining entry, fussing with her keys. Ken, in turn, found reasons to adjust every dial on his camera. Then the door opened, and I lost track of the next several seconds.

The cavernous space beyond was nothing less than an enchanted closet, bursting with racks of clothes. A profusion of colors from riotous reds to vivacious violets peeked out from muslin dust covers, artifacts from movies already produced, released, and mostly forgotten. Cupboards against the walls held hats, shoes, and accessories. I moved in a dumbstruck haze. What woman would not go weak before such a sartorial bonanza? Certainly not Ruby.

Edith, on her home turf, wasn't dazzled. “You've heard the sad news about Ruby Carroll,” she said to Ken.

He paused like a contestant on a quiz program. “A terrible thing.”

“I understand you two were friends.”

Now Ken took the pause of a man tapping the ice beneath his feet to test how thin it was. “Hardly. She wasn't here long enough for us to become friends. Where should I set up?”

“The photographs can wait. Then you did know her. How did you meet?”

More fidgeting with his camera. “In the commissary. She heard I was a photographer and said she needed new pictures.”

“New photos for her brunette phase?” I asked, thinking of the more natural look Ruby had sported at Tremayne's.

“That's right. She said she didn't have any.” Ken turned to me. “You weren't working here then. How do you know Ruby, exactly?”

Edith wouldn't allow the conversation to deviate from the course she'd set. “Did you take any photographs of her?”

“No. As I said, she left the studio soon after.”

“That's unfortunate. You do impressive work. I've always thought so.”

Ken, confused by the kudos, coughed out a thank-you.

“Speaking of which, you may set up right where you are.” Edith pushed one of the wardrobe racks forward, the rattle of its wheels loud. Hanging from the rod were the contents of Ruby's suitcase, the clothes Ken, for whatever reason, had stolen for her. He stared at the evidence of his misdeeds, swallowed hard, and faced Edith.

“Will we have any mannequins today?” he asked.

“They won't be necessary. We're not photographing these garments as wardrobe. Sadly, this is a police matter. Ruby … borrowed costumes from storage.”

“Borrowed?”

“To put it one way,” I said.

Ken shrugged, helpless as a foundling. “I'm afraid I'm a bit at sea here, Miss Head.”

“Then permit me to throw you a lifeline. All these items from Paramount productions were found in Ruby's possession.”

“In her … Ruby was a thief?” Ken did everything to convey shock short of clutching his throat. At least I wasn't the only lousy actor in the room.

“With an accomplice, no less. These articles were stolen after Ruby was let go by the studio. Someone with access to this room was aiding her in her crime before she was murdered. It's most upsetting. Mr. Groff is on the warpath over it.”

Ken nodded cagily, no doubt aware that his next words could determine his fate.

Which is why he seemed surprised when Edith didn't let him utter them.

“But the identity of the accomplice isn't our primary concern,” she said airily. “Our interest is
why
Ruby borrowed the clothes, if her actions could in any way harm the reputation of Paramount Pictures. It's why I asked if you knew Ruby. We're desperate for any insight into her behavior.”

“Of course,” Ken said slowly, not daring to believe what he was hearing.

“Anything you might remember would be held in the strictest confidence.” Edith touched Ken's arm. “Although I would certainly let Mr. Engstead know you'd been kind enough to cooperate. John is such a dear friend, my closest at the studio. I'd very much like to put in a good word for you with him. Could do wonders.”

Simply by setting the scene—sending me to retrieve him, displaying the stolen clothes—Edith had accused Ken without a word. Now she offered a pardon before handing down his sentence. I was in awe.

“I only knew Ruby a little.” Ken looked longingly at the door, then slumped as he chose not to use it. “But it seemed to me … she really knew the angles, that girl.”

“Indeed. Which angles in particular?”

Ken licked his lips. “The idea—”

The creak of the opening door clammed him up. Detective Morrow walked in, shadowed by Hansen. And here I'd lived to the Biblical age of one score and four believing you should be happy when the police arrived.