Mitzi of the Ritz

by Lee René

  To say Mrs. Carlisle served the fatted calf would be an understatement—it was three fatted calves roasted on spits alongside suckling pigs and chickens. An army of Mexican servants garbed in authentic dress saw to our every need. We dined al fresco on the incredible fare.

  Chick walked arm in arm with Jill and flashed a weak smile in my direction. Leah was in a spirited conversation with Mrs. Carlisle’s accompanists, while Omar joked with Buster. Edna abandoned me for dessert, leaving me alone. David’s attention remained on me, but I ignored the louse. Thankfully, Mrs. Carlisle took me aside, coming to my rescue.

  “Dear girl, I’ve been told you are a budding star. Oh, how I envy you. I dreamed of a career in motion pictures, but I was young and naive. I made a couple of silent dramas for a studio in San Diego. Perhaps you’ve seen Man and Maid? Beauty is Gold?”

  I hoped my smile looked genuine. “I’m sorry I haven’t had the pleasure.”

  Dagmar laughed theatrically. “No? Oh, well. They were before your time. How I hated the eighteen-hour days and the rigors of movie making. I’m afraid I was too accustomed to a life of luxury. I finally packed my bags and came home. I marveled at how dear Clarice could bounce back after working those long hours.”

  My pulse surged at her mention of Clarice, but I forced myself to speak in a casual tone. “When they were shooting The Southern Belle at La Rosita, did you ever meet a young man named Baron?”

  Her jaw dropped. “Baron? You mean Bernard Charles? Yes, of course I knew him, even his real name. Such a dashing young man, so handsome, so talented. He’d play our piano for hours. The dear boy adored my voice. He often said that Broadway was the place for me, but my late husband would not hear of it. It devastated me when the poor darling died alongside Clarice. They were an item, you know. Why do you ask?”

  “Well, you see, he was my uncle. My sister and I are trying to find out where he’s buried.”

  She moved closer. “Oh, my dear, dear girl, I’m so sorry, but I can’t help you. I can tell you something no one else knows. Bernard is still here at La Rosita. Don’t think me mad, but at times, especially while the roses are blooming, I feel his spirit.”

  I was pondering her words when David strolled over to us. Mrs. Carlisle simpered like a schoolgirl when he kissed her.

  “David, I was speaking to Mitzi about poor Bernard, her Baron. It’s strange you asked me about him too.”

  His color changed into a deep blush. “Uh, well, I knew Mitzi had questions, and I—”

  Before he could say another word, Mrs. Carlisle caught sight of Buster. “Oh, you must excuse me. I do so adore Negroes.”

  She floated away, and David took my arm. “Are you still angry about Chick?”

  That night, after I had consoled myself with milk and chocolate cake, my anger took a powder, but he didn’t have to know. I swerved away from him in a mock hissy fit. “Yes, I am. I’ll never forgive you.”

  He turned me around to face him, his green eyes dancing with mirth. “Yeah, I can see devastation etched on your face. I’ll beg for absolution on bended knee, but first I need to show you something. Come on.”

  David led me to the great rose garden behind the house. For a second I feared a repeat of our earlier encounters, but I thought better of it. An arrogant fellow like David Stein wouldn’t be so foolish, especially with Mr. Roth within screaming distance.

  ****

  My jaw dropped at my first sighting of the La Rosita garden. The biggest wisteria tree on earth made the giant gazebo look as if it sat in a purple mist. Wisteria painted the afternoon sky violet as if nature had dropped an amethyst-colored awning over La Rosita.

  I pointed to the bandstand. “My uncle played the piano there in The Southern Belle. I know you think it’s crazy, but Mrs. Carlisle said she feels Uncle Baron’s spirit here. Maybe she’s right. I once read the soul is energy and never dies.”

  David and I locked hands as we raced up the steps. He knelt at one of the pillars that buttressed the delicate roof. He took my forefinger, tracing it over an inscription carved into the wood and covered with a dark patina. “It says ‘Baron loves Clarice and Clarice loves Baron, forever.’ ”

  “How did you find it, David?”

  His attention remained on the carving. “I don’t know. I wasn’t looking for anything, just took a walk, and landed here.”

  The gazebo with its copper dome, carved spires, and elaborate finials looked like something from a Victorian fairytale. I spread my arms and spun around the bandstand.

  “Oh, David, just think, this might be the place where they fell in love. Uncle Baron and Clarice died together. It’s so romantic, except for the part about being burned alive.”

  I knew I shouldn’t pry, but for some reason my curiosity got the best of me. “David, have you ever been in love?”

  He looked away. “Maybe.”

  For some reason, I felt a bit disappointed. “Oh, so you’re in love with Beth Cushing. Forgive me for saying so, but I don’t think you have very good taste in ladies.”

  I found his snickering extremely annoying. “Excuse me, Mr. Stein, but I thought we were having a serious discussion.”

  David stopped laughing and all of a sudden became sincere. He turned his head, and I looked into his face. What a handsome guy.

  “No, I’m not in love with Beth, and there’s nothing wrong with my taste in ladies. Beth and I have a complicated history.”

  I wanted to hear about that history. “David, I’m not a kid. You can tell me anything.”

  David hemmed and hawed; it seemed to take ages to find the words. “I’m not proud about what happened with Beth. At Harvard, I ran into a guy from an old New England family. The fellow hated Jews, me in particular. I didn’t care if some crummy fraternity wouldn’t let in Jews, or about the general dislike of everything Jewish. The thing is, this fellow and his pals went out of their way to make it clear I stood under a special Hebrew light only goys could see. I vowed to get even with him and did just that. He was nuts about Beth, wanted to marry her, and I took her away from him.”

  It seemed to me that David ended up with the booby prize, but who was I to judge? “Of course, your revenge was sweet.”

  From the smug grin on his face, I figured he savored the memories of his depraved encounters with Miss Vassar. Then he stopped smiling.

  “At first, absolutely sugary. I knew it was wrong, but my wife had problems. She was delicate and, well, we couldn’t have relations, you know, relations between a husband and wife. I’m afraid I used Beth to scratch an itch.”

  “I guess you don’t mean eczema.”

  His face colored. “Doll, excuse me. I really shouldn’t be talking about this with you.”

  I felt my back stiffening. “Well, I don’t appreciate you treating me like a baby. You think I’m just a kid? Well, I’ll be twenty in October. The last time I checked, that makes me a woman. You have to talk to someone, don’t you? Why not me? So Beth wrecked your home.”

  I didn’t pull away when he took my hands in his. “Don’t blame her. Forget all that bullshit about Vassar. She never finished her freshman year. Her father blew his brains out after the Crash. A friend of the family gave her a role in a play so she and her mother wouldn’t starve. I met her after the swells cut her out of the social register. Pop had died, Dara wasn’t doing well, and I was going wacky. I know I sound like a cad, but it wasn’t supposed to be anything serious.”

  He sighed in resignation. “Dara had a bad ticker. The doctors said not to chance having relations, in case she got in the family way. Mitzi, you have to believe me when I tell you I was quite fond of her. I’d hoped for a real marriage, a family, and kids, but it wasn’t in the cards for us.” He dropped my hand and plopped down on the bandstand steps. I plopped with him.

  “Unfortunately, the Harvard guy was a vindictive son-of-a-gun. When he heard about Beth and me, he spilled the beans to Dara. I think it killed her. When I found out what he’d done, I beat the bastard to a bloody pulp, onl
y it was too late. I should never have married Dara. And I wish to hell I’d left Beth alone.”

  Perhaps David wasn’t really the playboy I’d thought. He remained silent for a long while; then his mood lightened. “Enough of my sordid past. What’s going on with you and Chick?”

  Why did he have to bring up Chick? “Bubkes. I keep hoping, but I don’t think anything will ever happen.”

  “Maybe it will, doll.”

  I gave a shake of my head. “No, not with Jill Carpenter in the picture.”

  He gave me one of his intense looks and moved closer. Maybe he wanted to tell me something else. David hesitated as if searching for the right words. “Uh, Mitzi, uh, I, well, would you—”

  He never finished his sentence. A sudden breeze stirred the branches of the great wisteria and a million purple blossoms rained down on us.

  “I think we better get back, Dollface.”

  I don’t know what he’d planned to say, but I guess it wasn’t important.

  ****

  A worried Buster waited for us on the veranda. “Mitzi, your sister is in the salon. She needs you.”

  Leah in trouble? We followed Buster into an opulent room with silk wall covering and a ceiling festooned with plaster-of-Paris roses. Leah sat on a gold damask divan, tears rolling down her face. Omar had an arm around her shoulder, but she refused to be consoled.

  I bent over and whispered, “Leah, what’s wrong? Tell me.”

  She didn’t speak, just pointed to a framed photograph affixed to a wall. Buster led me to it. “We took this picture nine years ago, on the last day of filming The Southern Belle.”

  Someone had shot the beautiful image on the bandstand. Dagmar had locked arms with the elder Mr. Roth, who looked dapper and proud as punch. Bobby Fayette posed next to a smiling Buster costumed in a white waiter’s jacket. Willy looked very much the silent screen director in his jodhpurs and riding boots. Little Jill Carpenter stood in the front row, an impish smile lighting up her face. Uncle Baron beamed at Clarice, who was ensnared in her mother’s arms. Dozens of extras, the men in tuxedos, and the ladies in gossamer gowns, surrounded them.

  Leah, unable to speak, kept her index finger pointed at the photo. I looked again and finally saw what so upset her. At the very edge of the photo, I could make out a man partly hidden behind a pillar. I reached for David to keep from sliding to the floor. The corners of his mouth turned up, in a furious smile. I saw a ghost from the past—no, a dybbuk, a demon no one had exorcised.

  The man in the photo was Joseph Nussbaum.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The Plot Thickens

  I lost my footing. I would have crumpled onto the floor if David hadn’t caught me. “Are you all right, Mitzi?”

  Seeing Nussbaum’s face had taken the air out me. “Thank you, I’m okay, just shocked. The fellow in the corner was the reason we left New York. Leah and I thought we’d never see his ugly puss again.”

  Buster and David both hovered over me, while Ida stared at the photograph in silence. Mr. Roth spoke in a hoarse whisper. “Your sister told us he went by the name Joseph Nussbaum. We knew him as Jacob Neuberger. Later, we found out the cops wanted him for arson, larceny, battery, and murder, under the name Joshua Noll.”

  The monster didn’t even have to change the monogram on his handkerchiefs.

  Ida stood in front of the photo, transfixed. “Leah told us Nussbaum, or whatever his name is, killed his wife. His copper friends in the New York police force must have helped him get away with it. The bastard came to Los Angeles, changed his name, then worked as a bodyguard for Ben’s father. After the fire, we searched for that son of a bitch everywhere—Mexico, Cuba, New York. We heard he’d died. I guess he was too smart for us.”

  Mr. Roth slumped on the settee. “That son-of-a-bitch robbed my father blind, so I threw him out on the streets like the dog he was. When he picked himself up, he said, ‘Ben, I know what you value most, and I’ll take it away.’ He did.”

  I couldn’t imagine what he meant. “What did he do?”

  Ida answered. “He started the fire all those years ago.”

  What? “But I thought Clarice’s mother started it.”

  Mr. Roth turned his ice-blue eyes on Ida, silencing her before she answered me. “I’m going back to the hotel. I have phone calls to make.”

  Mr. Roth planned to return to the hotel after this? “But Mr. Roth, my Uncle Baron—”

  He shushed me with a look. “There’s a lot to do. You and your sister come back to the hotel with me.”

  By then my tears were flowing. “What about Zisel, my other sister? She’s in New York and has no idea he started that fire.”

  He patted me on the shoulder. “Call her long distance. Tell her we’ll take care of her.”

  Would he take care of Zisel the same way he had Clarice and Uncle Baron? I had so many questions and things to discover. I’d find out everything, no matter what.

  Mr. Roth barked out a final order as I walked out the door. “Mitzi, don’t think about that animal.”

  How could I not?

  ****

  We returned to the Casa the next day with the knowledge Nussbaum had killed Uncle Baron. Since he was on the loose, the threat remained. The hotel’s switchboard had attempted to contact Zisel, to no avail. Ida promised to send a telegram, but we were on the telephone to Zisel as soon as we arrived. Tension permeated the living room as we attempted our first coast-to-coast telephone connection. The line crackled with static, the operators failed on the early tries, but after two hours, Leah finally reached Zisel.

  “Zisel, it’s me, Leah. What? Hang the expense. I’m calling because we’ve discovered something horrible and I wanted to warn you. Can you believe it? Nussbaum is not really Nussbaum. His name is Jacob Neuberger and he’s a murderer.”

  My eldest sister’s scream flew across the wires. Leah winced and moved the receiver away from her ear. “Thank you, Zisel, for making me deaf. Nussbaum started the fire that killed our Baron.”

  Zisel’s voice bellowed from the phone again. “My dear sister, if you don’t calm down, I’ll need a hearing aid. What? No! You can’t talk like that. No, no, no, please, Zisel, you can’t.”

  Leah turned to Omar. “You won’t believe the oaths coming from Zisel’s lips. She wants to kill Nussbaum.”

  Then it was Leah’s turn to scream into the phone. “Stay away from him, Zisel. No, Zisel, no. You can’t deal with it. No, no, no. You won’t buy a gun. Mr. Roth is handling it. Stay away from him. How about a nice vacation? We’ll pay for a ticket. Huh? You’ll come here, of course. No, Zisel, you can’t talk like that. What? Oh. Very well, if you won’t come here, then it will have to be the Catskills. Uh-huh, uh-huh. Yes, she’s in the room. I’ll put her on.”

  She handed the telephone receiver to me. My hands shook since I’d never spoken coast-to-coast. Leah encouraged me with a nod.

  “Hello, Zisel.”

  The connection wasn’t the best, but I made out her every word. “Mitzi, please act calm so as not to alarm Leah. I have information on the best authority, namely that fat buttinsky, Mrs. Gorshem. Nussbaum saw one of your movies and talked about you day and night. Nobody’s seen Nussbaum for days. It’s as if the bastard has disappeared from the planet. I’m sure he’s hiding his ugly face in shame. Tell Leah I love you both and not to worry. Goodbye, my darling.”

  With that, she hung up.

  No one said a word at dinner. I kissed Leah goodnight, then went to my room. I had already hit the hay when I heard Leah tiptoeing out the door. I knew Omar awaited her. He’d found love, and maybe I would too if only Chick would wise up.

  I thought of that night in Chick’s room and how he would have kissed me if only that schmo, David Stein, hadn’t stuck his nose in. After tossing and turning, I floated to New York and my last day at Barnard. It had rained overnight, and the floors were sodden with the footprints of a hundred pairs of galoshes. Hundreds of open umbrellas lined up at the entry to Barnard Hall like a
grove of monstrous black tulips.

  A man came out of the shadows, pulled me into his arms, and held me close. We tangoed in the rain. I looked up into my partner’s face and stared into David Stein’s green eyes. What the heck was wrong with me? I didn’t even know how to tango.

  ****

  When I returned to the Regal lot the next week, folks treated me like a queen. Everyone—grips, extras, and even established actors—waved and smiled at me as if I were somebody.

  Kids on the Lam didn’t turn out to be the dark tale of the times David had envisioned. He ignored Breen all right, kept the naked girls and the saucy language, but, at Mr. Roth’s insistence, added music. Chick played the ukulele, I sang, and Buster did a little shuffle. Sure, the songs may have been sappy, but I loved working with Chick. I pretended it was just the two of us and ignored Willy, Buster, an army of grips, and a battery of lighting technicians, set decorators, sound engineers, and everyone else. Sometimes, Chick looked at me as if he wanted to continue our little chat.

  “Uh, Chick, were you going to say something?”

  He looked around and shrugged. “Nah, baby, this isn’t the time or the place.”

  Everything was ducky until a certain blonde floozy showed up on set and plopped her ass in a chair next to the script girl. I refused to let her get my goat because I knew everything would work out. The police would apprehend Mr. Nussbaum, Clarice’s mother would tell me where she buried Uncle Baron, and Chick would realize that he couldn’t live without me.

  The final shots went off without a hitch and I thought things were going great until Betty managed to slip away from Jill and snuck into my dressing room after the last shot. “I don’t have much time. Miss Carpenter is having lunch with Mr. Hagan and will be screaming for me soon. I wanted to warn you about her. I know she comes off as a high-hat bitch, but she ain’t as bad a person as you think. Only thing is, she don’t like you because of that Chick fellow. Be careful, miss.” She looked toward the commissary. “I better be on my way.”