Sheri Cobb South (9 page)

They talked of inconsequential things for the rest of the drive, of films they had seen and actors they admired, and by the time Officer Kincaid walked Frankie to the door of the Hollywood Studio Club, he flattered himself that he had steered her mind into more acceptable channels. But Frankie was made of sterner stuff. While they debated the rival merits of Gary Cooper and Jimmy Stewart, Frankie’s fertile brain was hard at work devising a plan. She could hardly wait until morning, when she would set the first phase of her plan in motion.

“Thank you for seeing me home,” she told the young policeman. “It was awfully nice of you not to arrest Mitch and me.”

“Not at all, Miss Foster. I’m sure it was an honest mistake, and you meant well.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, clearly reluctant to leave. “I guess I’d better be getting back to the station. Can I see you again sometime?”

Naïve Frankie might be, but she could tell when a young man was interested in her. She weighed her options and decided it might be useful to have a friend on the police force
.
She noted his hesitation and wondered if he was angling for a goodnight kiss; she didn’t think she was ready to be
that
friendly
.
She wasn’t at all sure a policeman was allowed to kiss girls while he was on duty anyway. In the end, she settled for a warm smile and a handshake.

 “That would be lovely. Thanks again, and goodnight.”

Inside the Studio Club, the big common room was empty; most of the girls had gone out on dates, or to work the part-time jobs that supported them while they awaited their big break. Somewhere overhead, someone tap danced to a phonograph scratching out “I Got Rhythm.” Frankie hurried upstairs to her room, where Kathleen sat curled up at the head of the bed perusing the classified ads.

“What’s taken you so long?” Kathleen demanded, throwing the newspaper aside. “I was getting worried.”

“We ran into a little trouble.” Frankie kicked off her shoes and collapsed onto the bed. “The police showed up.”

“The
police
?” Kathleen’s voice rose in alarm. “Did they arrest you?”

“No, thank goodness. I can just see me having to wire Mama for bail money
.
” She grimaced at the thought
.

The British girl relaxed against the headboard. “I’m glad you’re all right. I was beginning to wonder. Did you find out anything about Mr. Cohen?”

“We didn’t have time to do much. Say, Kathleen, tomorrow I’m going on one of those bus tours where they show you where all the stars live. Would you like to go with me? My treat,” she added hastily. Most of the girls at the Studio Club suffered a chronic shortage of money.

“I’d like to, but I’ve already made plans.” She jerked her head in the direction of the newspaper, which Frankie could now see was marked at random with circles drawn in ballpoint pen. “Job hunting.”

“Auditions?” Frankie asked eagerly, snatching up the paper.

“No such luck. Waitress work, mostly. Since I can’t count on Arthur Cohen to give me a job, I guess I’ll have to go out and find one myself.”

Frankie laughed. “You make it sound like he died just to get out of giving you a job! But I know what you mean. If they decide to scrap
The Virgin Queen
, I may be job hunting right along with you.”

The two girls lapsed into sympathetic silence. It was an occupational hazard of aspiring actresses, this necessity of finding work that paid a living wage while still leaving time free for attending auditions.

“Anyway, why this sudden urge to see how the other half lives?” Kathleen asked. “I thought it was only the tourists who went in for that sort of thing.”

Frankie shook her head. “Nothing really, just—curious.”

“You know what they say, ‘curiosity killed the cat.’ ”

“Maybe.”

But Frankie didn’t think it was curiosity that had killed Arthur Cohen.

* * * *

Mitch dropped by the Studio Club the following morning, just to make sure Frankie hadn’t had any more difficulty with the police—with one policeman, anyway. He found her in the common room with half a dozen other girls, all seated in chairs drawn together in a tight circle around the radio.

“I just wanted to be sure you made it home okay,” he explained with a shrug, digging his hands into the pockets of his plus-fours. “That cop didn’t give you any trouble, did he?”

“No, not at all,” Frankie assured him. “He was very nice, and so understanding.”

“Is that so?” Mitch scowled, unimpressed by the policeman’s forgiving nature. “Well, I’d like him to understand a thing or two—”

“Shhh!” A freckle-faced redhead raised a finger to her puckered lips. “We’re trying to listen to
Pepper Young’s Family
!”

 “—Brought to you by Camay, the mild beauty soap for a smoother, softer complexion!” gushed the radio announcer.

Mitch glared at the redhead before turning back to Frankie. “Isn’t there someplace around here where we can talk?”

Frankie jumped up from her chair and grabbed Mitch by the arm. “Sure, follow me.”

He allowed her to lead him out of the crowded common room and into the foyer. “Okay, where to?”

Frankie shrugged. “I’ve been thinking of taking one of those bus tours—you know, the ones that show you where all the stars live. Want to go with me?”

“I don’t know,” Mitch said with a grimace. “Sounds awfully touristy to me. Do you honestly think you’re going to catch a glimpse of Rudy Valentino mowing his lawn?”

“Valentino’s been dead for ten years,” Frankie said, rolling her eyes. “And I doubt he did his own yard work even when he was alive.”

“Tell you what, why don’t we check out Schwab’s Pharmacy instead? You can see all the stars you want for free. Better yet, you can see ‘em while sitting on a stool sipping an ice cream soda. Show me the bus tour that can beat that!”

“Please?” Frankie coaxed, looking up at him with wide doe’s eyes. “My treat.”

Mitch was a bit baffled by her sudden change from shamus to sightseer, but then, he only appreciated women; he never claimed to understand them. “Oh, okay, if it means that much to you. But I’m paying, understand? I don’t sponge off dames.”

Hollywood had been a tourist destination since the days of the earliest silent flicks, and Tanner Motor Company’s double-decker tour buses had crisscrossed Beverly Hills since 1920, allowing movie lovers the chance to get a glimpse of their idols in their natural habitats. Frankie and Mitch boarded the bus at the Ambassador Hotel and Mitch paid the uniformed driver
,
grumbling a bit at the two-dollar fare. Squeezing her way down the aisle past rows of gawking sightseers, Frankie finally found a window seat about halfway to the back, leaving Mitch to sit next to the aisle. For the next half-hour, there was no sound but the tour guide’s memorized spiel and the grinding of the bus’s gears as it climbed higher into the Hollywood Hills.

The tour’s crown jewel, Pickfair, was a disappointment, to say the least. The mansion built on Summit Drive by Douglas Fairbanks in 1919 for his bride, Mary Pickford, had begun the exodus of stars from Los Angeles to Beverly Hills
.
Unfortunately, nothing could be seen of it from the road but a wall and a gate embellished with an elaborately scrolled “P.”

“Waste of two bucks,” grumbled Mitch, an observation that earned him a sharp “
shhh
!” not only from his companion, but also his fellow passengers in the seats fore and aft. Lapsing into chastened silence, he amused himself by watching Frankie, who sat with her nose pressed eagerly to the glass as the tour guide identified points of interest.

Valentino, Richard Berthelmess, the recently departed and deeply mourned Will Rogers—they were all represented here, as were the very much alive Gloria Swanson, cowboy Tom Mix, and silent-screen vixen Pola Negri, whose career had foundered when the coming of the talkies had revealed her pronounced Polish accent. Then the bus slowed before a stark, boxy residence built in the cubist style.

“It’s not a regular part of our tour,” the guide confessed, “but if you’ll look out the window to your right, you’ll see the home of Hollywood producer Arthur Cohen, who died just yesterday of a heart attack.”

Mitch looked sharply at Frankie, who met his accusing gaze with one of wide-eyed innocence.

At last the tour guide’s rambling monologue wound to a close, and the bus lurched to a stop and disgorged its passengers onto the curb in front of the Ambassador.

“Wasn’t that wonderful,” a middle-aged woman gushed to her female companion, her handbag knocking several of her fellow passengers in the head as she made her way up the aisle toward the door. “I loved Valentino’s Falcon’s Lair, didn’t you?”

“Oh yes,” the other enthused with a reminiscent sigh. “I remember seeing him in
The Sheik
when I was a girl. They knew how to make pictures in those days.”

Mitch stepped into the aisle in their wake, effectively blocking the aisle so Frankie could exit the bus. Once on the street, he allowed the other tourists to clear out before speaking his mind.

“Wasn’t that interesting?” Frankie asked brightly. “Although I had hoped for a better view of Pickfair—”

“ ‘Fess up, Frances,” Mitch interrupted, seizing her by the elbow and frog-marching her in the direction of his car. “You don’t give two hoots for Pickfair. You wanted to see where Arthur Cohen lived, and you knew it would be included on the tour.”

“I didn’t
know
,” Frankie protested. “I saw in this morning’s paper that he lived in Beverly Hills—that’s what it said, ‘producer Arthur Cohen of Beverly Hills’—and I thought the tour guide might point it out.”

“And why do you need to know where old Artie lived?”

Frankie shrugged, a careless gesture that didn’t fool Mitch for a minute. “I thought I might pay a condolence call to see how his wife is holding up. He was married to Letitia Lamont, the silent film star, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know, and what’s more, I don’t care! And I don’t think you do, either. Well, you know what? Whatever you’re up to, you can count me out. Last night you came this close to getting us both arrested for breaking and entering. If I’d wanted a criminal record, I could’ve gotten one back in College Station—and had a heck of a lot more fun doing it,” he added, recalling certain off-campus establishments that catered to the more illicit activities of A & M students.

 “There’s nothing illegal about making condolence calls,” Frankie insisted, sliding onto the passenger seat while Mitch held the door open. “In fact, I’m sure Mama would say it was the right thing to do. And she would say I ought to bring something—a pound cake, maybe.”

“Speaking of your mama, did she ever spank you really hard when you were a child?”

“No, Daddy did that.” Frankie winced at the memory. “If I was really bad, he used a belt. Why do you ask?”

“Because,” Mitch said, slamming the car door for emphasis, “someday I’d like to shake his hand.”

Chapter 8

The Merry Widow (1934)

Directed by Ernst Lubitsch

Starring Jeanette MacDonald, Maurice Chevalier, and Edward Everett Horton

“Are you sure you don’t want to come along?” Sitting on the edge of the bed, Frankie tweaked one stocking in an effort to straighten the seam running down the back of her leg. “I’d be glad of your company.”

Kathleen shook her head, setting her blonde curls bouncing. “I wish I could—I’d love to see how the other half lives!—but I’ve got a job interview at half past three.”

Frankie looked up at her roommate, her interest piqued. “A screen test?”

“Nothing so glamorous. The Trocadero Club is looking for cigarette girls.” She sighed wistfully. “I’ve been in Hollywood for over two years now. I thought by this time I’d be a household name and have a villa at the Garden of Allah.”

“Maybe you’ll be discovered at the Trocadero,” suggested Frankie, eternally optimistic. “All the really important people go there.”

“Maybe. In the meantime, I’d settle for having next month’s rent taken care of.”

Frankie lingered by the open door, suddenly reluctant to leave. It was one thing to announce to Mitch her intention of gate-crashing the Cohens’ Beverly Hills residence; actually doing the deed was another thing entirely.

“Well, good luck,” she said, hoping to the last that Kathleen would change her mind. “Let me know how it goes.”

“You’ll be the first to know,” Kathleen promised. “Do you happen to know if Pauline is finished in the bathroom yet? I can’t do a thing with my hair.”

Frankie returned a noncommittal answer and, steeling herself to the prospect of descending upon Letitia Lamont all alone, started down the stairs to summon a taxi. As she crossed the lounge, the black telephone mounted on the wall seemed to draw her like a magnet. True, she and Mitch hadn’t exactly parted on the best of terms, but that was nothing new; they’d been quarreling off and on since the moment they met. Surely if she asked him, he would go with her. She could save a cab fare, too, since he had a car. Her hand closed around the receiver. All she had to do was call him up, swallow her pride, and—

Frankie dropped the receiver as if it burned her hand. She wouldn’t call Mitch Gannon if he was the last man on earth.

“What’s the matter?” asked a feminine voice, amused. “Fight with the boyfriend?”

Frankie turned and saw Pauline elegant yet casual in satin lounging pajamas, descending the stairs with feline grace.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Frankie insisted. “I was just—just calling for a taxi.”

To prove the point, she snatched up the receiver and put the call through before she lost her nerve entirely. Pauline merely gave her a knowing smile and joined the group of girls listening to
Backstage Wife
in the lounge.

Her call completed, Frankie stepped outside to wait for her ride. Unfortunately, she had to make the trip empty-handed: the Studio Club might provide its female residents with practice rooms, a library, a ping-pong room, and even a rooftop deck for sunning (to the detriment of several small planes whose pilots were distracted by the view) but the one kitchenette provided for their use was unavailable
.
Two script girls and an aspiring screenwriter had taken possession of it in order to bake cookies for their boyfriends, an operation that showed every sign of taking the rest of the day. Frankie was a bit surprised at the kitchen’s popularity; she had assumed most of the girls living at the Studio Club had come to California in the hopes of escaping such domestic pursuits as baking.