Queen of Hearts (Royal Spyness Mysteries) (13 page)

Even as he said it the door burst open and Stella stormed out, dressed in full Elizabethan costume with long red hair flowing over her shoulders. Cy came hot on her heels.

“I can’t believe you.” She turned on him like a tiger. “You promise him the moon and then you let him down like that.”

“He wasn’t good enough, Stella. Be reasonable,” Cy shouted, grabbing her arm and whirling her back to face him. “He didn’t make the grade. He was nothing. A Spanish peasant. He should be damned grateful I brought him here.”

“He’s not a peasant. He comes from an old, old family with a castle, parts of which you tried to buy, if I remember rightly. You take everything you want from Spain, don’t you?” Stella demanded. “The great Cy Goldman. Just because you have money you think you can buy everything. Well, you can’t buy me.”

He pulled her close then so that their faces were only inches apart. “Don’t forget, sweetheart, without me you’re done for. You were a has-been. Your voice isn’t really good enough for the talkies, is it? Who else would give you a starring role in a picture, huh?” He released her then. “Maybe you’re getting just a little too fond of the Spanish peasant, huh? You want to watch your step, Stella baby. There’s plenty more where you came from. Now get back in there and try a little harder, because you know what? Claire Daniels will outact you in every scene.”

Stella tossed her red hair and stalked back into the studio. I saw Cy give a little smirk as he followed her. It wasn’t a comfortable afternoon on the set. Cy had appeased Stella by letting Juan try out for Don Alonso, the dashing Spanish advisor. We moved on to a scene between Stella and my mother and I could see what Cy meant. Mummy shone, the way she always did on stage. Stella’s voice had an annoying sharp quality to it and even with all that makeup she still looked older than the eighteen-year-old girl she was supposed to be playing. And the more I saw of the script, the more stupid I thought it was. It wasn’t just that the history was completely wrong. The dialogue was peppered with Old English words and phrases like “forsooth,” “gadzooks” and “fie, my lord, fie.”

When we were finally driven back to the hotel Queenie was remarkably subdued. I suppose my talking-to had made her realize that she had behaved inappropriately. Or perhaps Claudette had made her see sense. Either way she laid out my dress for dinner, took my day clothes to be pressed without a word or a single “Bob’s yer uncle.”

At seven o’clock there was a knock on our door. I opened it cautiously, dreading Dolores or her chums. Instead Cy Goldman and Craig Hart stood there. Cy’s arms were full of flowers. “We’ve come to take you lovely ladies out to dinner,” Cy said. “Come on. Put your dancing shoes on.”

Mummy acted pleased and flattered. As we walked to a waiting car I heard Craig mutter to Cy, “Yes, I think she’ll do nicely.” And I got the feeling they were talking about me. Was I about to be discovered and turned into a film star? Then I grinned. That would be too absurd. Craig drove us in an enormous white convertible. We were whisked down Wilshire Boulevard at great speed to another fine hotel called the Ambassador and walked past palm trees to a club called the Cocoanut Grove. A negro jazz band was playing and the place was full.

“Everybody’s here tonight,” Cy said. “Hi, Norma, honey.” He kissed a cheek. “Norma Shearer,” he said to us. “And Errol, you old devil.” He turned to us. “You haven’t met Errol Flynn yet, have you?”

Another gorgeous dark man eyed us both appraisingly. “You and I have to dance when the music gets going,” he said to my mother.

Craig put an arm around my shoulder. “Watch out for that one,” he said. “He likes his girls pure and innocent.”

“How do you know I’m pure and innocent?” I heard myself asking and surprised myself.

Craig laughed. “Honey, when you’ve been around as long as I have, you know. That’s what’s so appealing about you.”

I knew I should say “I do have a boyfriend,” but I didn’t want to spoil the moment. I had Mummy and Cy to keep an eye on me, didn’t I?

We dined. A man called Bing Crosby got up and sang. Mummy went off to dance with Errol Flynn. Craig asked me to dance and held me close. It was all rather heady. I couldn’t wait to write about it to Belinda. Cy insisted that we leave at ten as we had to be on the set early next morning and Craig had to study his lines, so I didn’t have a chance to see what might have happened later. Neither did Mummy. She and Mr. Flynn were getting along remarkably well. I could tell she was in her element here and wondered if being Frau von Strohheim still had its appeal. And I did wonder what I would do if Craig made advances to me.

T
HE NEXT DAY
the car came to take me to the set again. “Lots of tension,” Ronnie muttered as he escorted me inside. “Stella and Cy. She hasn’t forgiven him. Juan is doing badly and muffing his lines and may well be out altogether.”

“Oh dear,” I said. “Is making talkies always like this?”

“Worse, sometimes. We haven’t had a real catfight yet, although Stella has clearly decided that having your mother in the film was not such a good idea after all. She wanted an older woman so that she could look young, but I must say your mother looks magnificent. And she can act too. I wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t end up as a big film star.”

“I think she’s intending to go back to Europe after this picture,” I said.

“Cy won’t let her. He’ll sign her to a contract if it’s the last thing he does.”

We got through a long and tense day. There was no mention of dinner this evening. It was hot and muggy as we drove home and all I longed to do was go for a swim.

“Queenie. Help me out of this,” I called as I came into my bedroom. No answer. I bet she had fallen asleep again. At least it wasn’t on my bed this time. “Queenie?” I opened her door. The bed was made. The room was tidy. I came out into the living room.

“Claudette. Queenie’s not here. Don’t tell me she went for a swim again.”

Claudette shook her head. “She ’as gone. I tried to talk to her but she doesn’t listen to me. She is
fou,
that one. Mad.”

“What do you mean, gone?” I asked.

She pointed at the coffee table. “She left you a letter.”

I picked it up. Written in Queenie’s childish script:

Dear Miss,

I am sorry to say that I am leaving your employment. I have been offered a good job by Mrs. Hanford. She has always wanted an English maid and she offered me a lot of money to leave you. Since we haven’t been getting along too well lately and you keep telling me off I thought I’d take my chances with her. Sorry to leave you in the lurch but you know how to take care of yourself quite well.

Yours faithfully,

Queenie Hepplewhite (your former maid)

I just stood there staring. I couldn’t believe it. Queenie—hopeless little Queenie had landed herself a plum job. And I couldn’t believe the sense of loss I felt. I knew I should have been relieved to be rid of her. Now I could find myself a proper lady’s maid—one who wouldn’t fall asleep on my bed, or iron holes in my evening gowns. But I found instead I was blinking back tears.

“Queenie’s gone,” I said to my mother, who was sprawled on the sofa with her script on her knees. “She’s left me. Got a better job.”

“Good luck to whoever’s landed with her,” Mummy said, not looking up. “Don’t worry, darling. Claudette can take care of both of us. She has very little to do here. She won’t mind a bit—will you, Claudette?”

“No, madame,” Claudette said, giving me a look that said the opposite.

“Now leave me in peace. I must work,” Mummy said.

I felt too upset to go to bed. I wandered the grounds. Suddenly I heard a man’s voice saying, “There she is at last.” And a hand reached out from the bushes and grabbed me.

A
T
THE
B
EVERLY
H
ILL
S
H
OTEL

W
EDNESDAY
, A
U
GUST
1, 1934

I was about to scream when a male voice said, “Georgie, old bean. Steady on, it’s me. Algie.”

His face came into focus in the light of the torches that lined the pool.

“Algie? What on earth are you doing here?” I asked. “I thought you were supposed to be working on a ranch.”

“Well, old thing, you see it’s like this. Tubby’s newspaper wanted him to come out to Hollywood on some kind of secret mission thingy so I thought I might join him. Keep him company, you know. Dashed lonely for a chap in a foreign country like this. We’ve become rather good pals. And I knew you’d be here, what with your mother making a picture, don’t you know. I thought you might be able to pull a few strings to get me a job on a film.”

“Get you a job on a film? What on earth could you do on a film, Algie?”

“I don’t know. I’m an adaptable sort of chap. And I’m not too proud to take lowly work. Assistant director or something. Anything would be better than chasing cows on a ranch.”

“Well, I suppose you could come with me in the morning,” I said dubiously.

“I say, you are a brick, old bean. What time?”

“The car will come when I call it. Say nine o’clock.”

“Could we make it closer to ten, do you think? I’m not exactly an early riser. They had to yank me out of bed by my feet every morning at school.”

I laughed. “Then I don’t think the film industry is for you, Algie. My mother has to be on set at six.”

“Six?” The word came out as a yelp. “As in six a.m.? I’ve only ever seen six a.m. when I’ve been returning home from a party.”

“Well, that’s when film directors expect you to show up. And I’m sure ranchers go to work before sunup too.”

He swallowed hard. I watched his Adam’s apple go up and down. “Well, I suppose I could learn anything if I really had to. All right. I’ll jolly well do my best to be there at nine tomorrow. And thanks awfully, Georgie. I really appreciate this.”

As he turned to go a thought struck me. “Just a minute. How did you manage to find me?”

“Ah well. Old Tubby, you know. He’s on the trail of your mama.”

I felt the blood draining from my face. If Tubby had been following my mother then he’d know all about the divorce and Reno and my mother’s double. We’d be doomed. Homer Clegg would never divorce Mummy now. Mummy would never forgive me. “Tubby has been following us? All the way from New York? That’s absolutely despicable.”

“Steady on, old girl. It wasn’t like that. Tubby’s editor cabled him in New York and said he’d got wind that Claire Daniels was making a picture and he wanted him to go out to Hollywood and try to get an exclusive interview—‘My return to stardom.’ You know the kind of thing. So we hopped on the next train and here we are. It seems that everyone here has heard about your mama and knew where she was staying.”

“I see,” I said. “Well, don’t you dare bring Tubby to the studio with us. He’ll have to approach my mother himself if he wants an interview, and let me warn him that she doesn’t like newspaper reporters.”

So off he went. I let myself into the bungalow. Mummy was now reading her lines out loud, declaiming, “Thou daughter of a whore. Get thee from my sight!”

I tiptoed past her, undressed myself, hung up my own clothes and went to bed with a heavy heart.

I
N THE MORNING
Algie showed up a little after nine, pleased with himself, but looking awfully bleary-eyed and disheveled. I suspected he’d simply staggered out of bed, into his clothes and out of the door.

“And you do understand, you’re not to mention anything of what goes on here to Tubby,” I said. “My mother would be furious if she knew. I sincerely hope he hasn’t sent you as a spy.”

I looked him straight in the eye. The fact that he didn’t blush and look uncomfortable convinced me that this wasn’t the case.

“Oh gosh no,” he said. “Absolutely not. I just want to find a job that isn’t as beastly as mucking out cows.”

The gatekeeper saluted as we drove under the arch saying
GOLDEN PICTURES
. Ronnie came out to meet me.

“How’s it going?” I asked.

“Not well,” he said. “Everyone is still very tense after yesterday.” He noticed Algie. “Who is this? I’m afraid no guests are allowed on the set. Mr. Goldman’s orders.”

Before I could introduce Algie he stepped forward, holding out his hand. “Algie Broxley-Foggett. How do you do. I’m a childhood friend of Georgie’s and come from a very old family connected to the Tudors. I’ve come out to California to make my fortune so I’m hoping that Mr. Goldman will find a job for me on his film.”

I looked at Algie with wonder. So the bumbling, clumsy, likable idiot could be quite devious if he wanted. He certainly wasn’t a childhood friend, nor, I suspected, was he connected to the Tudors.

“Well, I guess that will be okay then,” Ronnie said uncertainly. He looked at me. I was tempted to say what I had been thinking but decided to give Algie the benefit of the doubt. He needed all the help he could get in life, I suspected.

We waited until the red light went off then followed Ronnie into the darkness of the studio. At the other end lights blazed over an interior palace set, this time with a four-poster bed front and center.

“And action,” shouted a voice and the clapboard snapped together.

“Get out of my sight, thou daughter of a whore,” Mummy said with venom.

“Cut,” came a voice from the blackness. “Cy, we can’t let her use the word ‘whore’ if we don’t want the picture to end up with an A rating.”

“Okay. Claire, sweetheart, you’d better say ‘prostitute’ then.”

“Cy. Maybe not ‘prostitute.’ A little risqué for the censor,” said the voice.

“What the hell do you want her to say. ‘Daughter of a naughty wench’?”

“Cy,” Mummy interrupted. “Trollop. How about if I say ‘trollop’?”

“Great idea, Claire. Nobody will know what a trollop is. Go ahead with it. And Stella, you’re supposed to be an innocent young girl and these are the talkies, remember? That voice wouldn’t convince anyone you were a British princess. Listen to how Claire sounds . . . or better still, wait until her daughter gets here and listen to her. Maybe she can give you coaching.”

“I have made thirty-five pictures, Cy. I do not need coaching,” Stella said in a frosty voice.

“But they were mostly silent, weren’t they, honey. You’ve got great expressions for the silent screen, I’ll give you that . . . but I wouldn’t mention those thirty-five pictures. They give away your age.”

“Fine, if you don’t want to do my script, I can always take it to another studio,” Stella said angrily.

“Not while you’re under contract to me, honey.” Cy laughed. “You aren’t going anywhere, baby. You know which side your bread is buttered on. Now let’s get on with it.”

Mummy delivered her line about the daughter of a trollop. I could tell she was feeling rather pleased with herself, knowing that she’d scored a point over Stella. There was no such thing as bosom friends in the acting profession, I decided.

We moved away from the door to find seats. “I say, old bean, that’s not right, is it?” Algie whispered to me. “I mean Mary and Elizabeth didn’t ever love the same man. I don’t think Mary loved anybody!” I put a finger to my lips just as Algie stumbled in the blackness and kicked over a chair.

“Cut!” Cy Goldman yelled, then wheeled around and spotted Algie. “What’s this guy doing here?”

Ronnie stepped forward before we could answer. “He’s a childhood friend of Lady Georgiana and from a real distinguished British family with connections to the Tudors themselves. He’s hoping he might be useful to you on the picture.”

“The first thing he’d better learn is that nobody talks or moves around when we’re shooting.” Cy glared. “What do you do, young man?”

“Do? Well, not too much until now. Just came down from Oxford. Oh, I see what you mean—what job could I do on the film. Well . . . I rather fancy myself as an actor,” Algie said. “It might be ripping fun to be dressed up like that in tights and a doublet and with a sword.”

“Have you had much experience?”

“Oh, rather. My Lady Macbeth got rave reviews.”

“Lady Macbeth?”

“In prep school. You should have seen my sleepwalking scene, my hands covered in blood and saying, ‘Out, damned spot. Out, I say.’” He swung out his arms in a dramatic gesture, knocking one of the lights. It teetered and would have fallen, had not two of the crew leaped to grab it.

There was a cross between a moan and a cry from the set. “He quoted from the play we never mention,” Mummy wailed. “The Scottish play. Now we are cursed, doomed. Something terrible will happen.”

“It will be fine, Claire,” Mr. Goldman soothed. “The boy doesn’t know any better. But I don’t want him on set upsetting my stars. You say you’re related to the Tudors?”

“Oh, absolutely. Oodles of Tudors in the old family tree,” Algie said. He went to lean nonchalantly against a rough stone wall only to find it was a flat that teetered and again he had to be grabbed by a stagehand.

“Well, I guess we could use an extra script consultant, seeing that you know the Tudors personally,” Mr. Goldman said, eyeing him dubiously. “And that you’re a longtime friend of our Georgie.”

“Can we get on with this?” Stella snapped. “How am I supposed to stay in character if we keep being interrupted every second? And I know it must be tough for Claire too, playing such a young woman.”

A few days ago Mummy was her bosom friend, I thought. I wondered why this sudden hostility now? Perhaps Juan was showing interest in my mother. Perhaps Stella had suggested my mother for the part because Mummy was older and a has-been and thus not a threat. But now it was clear that Mummy was a better actress and looked better too. They went back to work but the tension level was still extremely high. Were they all thinking what Mummy had said about the curse of
Macbeth
? I knew theater people were terribly superstitious.

We broke for lunch in the cafeteria. It looked so funny to see everyone in costume eating American food. When we came back to the studio after lunch there was still tension in the air. The afternoon dragged on. I was definitely wishing I was back beside the pool and wondering if I dared summon the car when the door opened, sending a shaft of light across the set. Mr. Goldman swore, yelled “Cut!” and swung around. “What now?” he bellowed.

Ronnie came toward him, looking more worried than usual. “Real sorry to interrupt, Mr. Goldman, but I’ve just had your wife on the telephone.”

“My wife? What does she want now?” Goldman growled.

“She’s heard about your shopping spree in Europe—buying stuff for the castle,” Ronnie said, wincing as he said it.

“So? What of it?”

“She thinks you’ve gone crazy and you’re turning the place into a Gothic nightmare—her words, not mine, sir. She’s flying out this weekend to see for herself.”

Mr. Goldman muttered a string of swear words, some of which I’d never heard before. Then he said, “Well, maybe it’s not such a bad idea after all. I’m not getting a good feeling here. It’s not going well. Maybe we all need a break. Okay. Listen up, everyone. I’ve made up my mind. I’m taking you all up to the castle.”

“All of us?” Stella asked. “And your wife too?”

“Sure. Why not? It’s a big place. Plenty of bedrooms, Stella honey. Give you a chance to relax and settle down. It won’t be wasted time. We can do some read-throughs and blocking with Craig. Is he still in his trailer?”

“I believe so, Mr. Goldman.”

“Then maybe Georgie would like to go and tell him the plan. He was asking about you, Georgie.”

“Craig? Mr. Hart, you mean? Asking for me?” I stammered. “What did he want?”

“Missing you, I guess.” And he gave me a wink.

“Golly,” I said.

“Tell him we’ll work here on set Friday morning, then drive up to the castle Friday afternoon. Got it?”

“I’ll show you where the trailers are,” Ronnie said, escorting me to the door. I followed, rather stunned by everything that had happened and by the suggestion that Craig Hart—internationally adored heartthrob—wanted to see me. Surely not when my mother was available. When every woman between fifteen and fifty was available? I gave a little grin, but then I paused to think. These film stars were notorious womanizers. Was Craig Hart expecting to find me his next willing victim? Was he interested in the challenge of an English virgin?