The Sharpest Needle

by Renee Patrick

  ‘Who wouldn’t covet such an invitation?’ Edith spread her arms to encompass the glorious setting around us. ‘I remind you, this is supposition on my part. But Mr Baird is no longer active in the picture business. He fears that world, and you, have passed him by. He’s afraid of being forgotten. He brightened noticeably when recounting his history with you, and your lunch with him and Mr Vollmer. Argus is a way back into your life.’

  ‘But Clarence is welcome here anytime. He’s known that for years.’

  ‘Being welcome is hardly the same thing as an invitation.’

  Marion set Gandhi down so she could press both hands to her blonde hair. ‘You’re right. Of course you’re right. I suspected something similar all along.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ I asked. ‘Now that you have some kind of idea, anyway?’

  ‘For starters, I’m going to stop worrying. W.R. never needs to hear about this, and that’s a tremendous relief. As for Clarence … I suppose I’ll talk to him. I just have to have a think about how to go about it.’ She slammed both hands onto the arms of her chair. ‘You ladies can’t help me with that. You’ve taken such a load off my mind. How can I ever begin to thank you?’ She kissed first Edith, then me. Her affection smelled heavily of juniper. She hadn’t been drinking lemonade out here in the sun.

  A tour of the beach house was a modest way for Marion to express her gratitude. I had been right: the painting I’d glimpsed on my way in had been a Rembrandt. Marion owned several of them, along with a number by an artist I was embarrassed to admit I didn’t know, named Greuze. ‘He’s French,’ Marion said. ‘Pola Negri told me I reminded her of one of his paintings. I started collecting them that very day. Use ’em as mirrors.’

  She insisted we stay for the afternoon’s buffet lunch, and no one ever need insist a Frost enjoy free grub. I helped myself to cold roast beef and potatoes while watching Walter Kehoe quarrel with Vera, the young woman he’d brought along. At least I assumed it was them; they were so far away I couldn’t be sure. Marion chattered away, telling stories about making films, all the while surreptitiously refilling her glass with gin.

  Edith, having nibbled at some salad, announced that she had to work at the studio for the rest of the afternoon. I also reluctantly took my leave, Marion walking us to the door and making us promise to return. ‘You have an open invitation,’ she said, ‘but I’ll be sure to send the occasional real invitation, too. I’ve figured out how important those are.’

  More cars had parked opposite the house. The chauffeur I’d spoken to earlier had clambered into his assigned vehicle and drifted off to sleep. Edith pointed at her roadster. ‘Can I drop you anywhere?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ I said. ‘I’m going to walk some of that lunch off on the beach now that we’ve done our good deed for the day.’

  ‘Yes. I certainly hope we did.’ From the tone of Edith’s voice, it was clear she wasn’t entirely certain.

  EIGHT

  The halo from Addison’s smash college reunion dinner lingered until Monday morning, allowing me to bask fleetingly in its glow myself. My employer’s ability to be stupefied by the success of events he planned with such care was his most endearing quality. His bliss bubbled over when I relayed that Edith and I had already set Marion’s mind at ease.

  ‘Remind me to dictate a thank-you letter to Edith and send her a token of my esteem,’ he instructed. ‘In fact, get two, and keep the other for yourself. How was the rest of your weekend?’

  It was a sign of the world’s heightened anxiety that I deliberated about how to respond. I could have discussed the rapidly deteriorating situation in Europe. The German army massed on the Slovakian border, rattling their sabers. They presumably had sabers because Hitler had signed a massive trade pact with the Soviet Union that made a push into Poland seem inevitable. Pope Pius XII had dispatched an envoy to Warsaw, a development so alarming that my parish priest Father Nugent had abandoned his usual Sunday homily, heavy on the James Cagney references, in favor of us praying for peace. Or I could have mentioned how the news on the home front wasn’t so rosy, either, not with a young girl in the German-American Bund testifying to a Congressional committee that the organization sought to pave the way for a Nazi-style dictatorship in the United States. The girl had even informed the committee that Bund officials assured her there was no shame in bearing an illegitimate child, provided the father was German. The Catholic schoolgirl in me nearly fainted dead away at such blasphemy.

  I didn’t raise any of these fraught subjects. Instead, I groused about not being able to get into a screening of The Wizard of Oz. ‘Every show sold out!’ I marveled. ‘I wound up at the Pantages for When Tomorrow Comes.’

  ‘Ah, Charles Boyer and Irene Dunne. Very sad, that one.’

  ‘I sobbed all the way through it, mainly because I had to miss Wizard.’ I narrowed my eyes. ‘You saw it, didn’t you? I can tell from the way you’re not looking at me.’

  ‘I won’t breathe a word until you’ve seen it, too. We’ll have a lot to talk about.’ He strode off, whistling a tune that was probably from the picture.

  As I was putting the finishing touches on Addison’s gift for Edith, the lady herself telephoned. ‘Is this about Walter Plunkett’s costumes in The Wizard of Oz?’ I said. ‘Because I’m not in a position to discuss them yet.’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’ The tone of her voice drained any mirth from the moment. ‘Wally Westmore stopped by my office. He heard from a friend, another makeup man. Clarence Baird is dead.’

  That family’s a cabal. So Clarence had claimed about the Westmores only days ago, yet they were the ones bringing word of his demise.

  I had to cough before I could speak. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Wally didn’t have any details, aside from a rumor it was suicide.’

  Because of the letters.

  As if reading my thoughts, Edith went on, ‘I’ll be calling Miss Davies next. I wanted to speak to you first. I thought perhaps you could learn the particulars from Detective Morrow.’

  Of course, I said, absolutely, and offered a hurried goodbye. I dialed Gene’s number – I hadn’t called it much lately, but remembered it like the walk home from school – and exhaled so loudly when he answered that he growled, ‘Who the hell is this?’

  I told him, and he immediately apologized. ‘Thought some joker was razzing me. It’s been a while, stranger. To what do I owe the pleasure?’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s no pleasure. I’ve heard a story. If it’s true, it might create a sticky situation for the department.’

  Once he’d heard me out about Marion, and Argus, and Clarence Baird, Gene sought confirmation, leaving me dangling for several agonizing minutes. Maybe it’s not true, I reassured myself feverishly. Maybe Wally Westmore misheard some gossip. Maybe—

  ‘Baird, Clarence. Found dead early this morning. Sorry I couldn’t tell you different. I’ll be on my way to his place shortly, because it’s already a sticky situation.’ I heard his chair creak down the wire and pictured him pulling out his worn notebook with the crease bisecting the cover, licking his finger before flipping to a fresh page. ‘Better give it to me again.’

  I suggested another idea. I knew I couldn’t handle this remotely, dispassionately, over the telephone. I needed to be there, in person. To own up to the role I might have played.

  Necessity had forced Clarence Baird into a uniquely hellish prison. He’d resided in a tumbledown bungalow tantalizingly close to several Hollywood nightspots, so every time he went outside he’d be reminded of the world he was no longer a part of and so deeply missed. It was evident from the street that one corner of the bungalow’s roof had gone soft and needed repair, but who worried about such things with the weather so glorious? I could practically hear Baird’s grandiose protests that he had time yet to deal with the problem. He wasn’t going anywhere.

  A pair of police cars were outside, along with a lonesome figure. I recognized the moon-faced lad who’d accompanied Baird to Clifto
n’s Cafeteria. He stood at the end of the short path to Baird’s front door, propping himself up on the rickety fence wrapped around the house. I searched my brain for the name I’d caught in passing.

  ‘Mr Carter, isn’t it?’

  He peered at me, lost.

  ‘We met on Friday. At Clifton’s. We were never introduced. I’m Lillian Frost.’

  The young man – hair slicked back, suit jacket a different shade of black than his trousers – slowly came to. ‘Carter’s my first name. Carter Muncy. You’re Miss Head’s friend.’

  ‘That’s right. May I ask what happened?’

  Muncy waved at the house as if trying to banish it. ‘Clarence, he’s … he’s dead.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. I enjoyed meeting him. He was … such a vibrant man.’ I didn’t instantly turn to stone, so perhaps I wasn’t lying. Vibrant was as good a word for Clarence Baird as any. ‘Did the police say what happened?’

  ‘Only that Clarence was dead.’

  ‘So you didn’t find him?’

  ‘No, a neighbor did.’ He gestured vaguely toward the adjacent homes. ‘I live a few blocks over, and drop by every other day to say hello, see if Clarence needs any help. I drive him places, mostly. Clarence had to sell his car recently.’

  Maybe he’d finally decided to fix that roof. ‘That was kind of you. Not many people would do that.’

  ‘I loved talking to him. He’d been in the picture business since it began.’ Muncy spoke in the solemn tones of a boy recounting his favorite bedtime story. He needed you to know exactly how many dragons there were, just how imperiled the princess was. ‘I came here from Michigan to learn all about pictures. I couldn’t believe my luck when I ran into Clarence one day at the market. He knew everything and everyone, and he didn’t mind talking. I could have listened to him for hours.’

  I’ll bet Clarence would love that, I thought, then had to remind myself Baird was dead.

  Muncy ventured away from the fence and several steps too close to me. His voice became wheedling and insistent. ‘I wanted to say hello to Miss Head on Friday. I’ve read about her in the fan magazines. I’m always thrilled to meet anyone who works in pictures.’

  ‘I’ll make sure you two have a chance to say hello, then.’ While the glow of excitement was still on his face, I pressed on. ‘Did Clarence tell you why he was meeting with us?’

  ‘He said Miss Head wanted him to work on a picture.’

  Of course he did. Leave it to a makeup man to embellish right up to the end.

  Muncy moved even closer. His breath had a stale, medicinal scent. ‘I knew he was lying, though. It was about that letter he got, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Yes, you do. I’ve heard about you and Miss Head. How you investigate things. Are you investigating this? Because if you are—’

  Behind him, the door to the house opened. Gene emerged into the daylight.

  ‘I should go.’ Muncy scampered off.

  I didn’t know how to greet Gene. Not that I would have leapt into his arms at a crime scene, but I was perturbed I didn’t even feel the impulse to run to him. I approached him more like a dog I’d encountered before, hoping he remembered me and wouldn’t bite.

  He wore a wry expression and a paisley necktie I wouldn’t have chosen for him. His face looked a bit thinner, but during summer in Los Angeles everyone loses weight. Before either of us could say a word, Gene’s rawboned partner Roy Hansen drifted out of the house. He lingered behind Gene, an insolent shadow.

  ‘Hello, Frost.’ A quaver in my knees at the way he said my last name, the offhand intimacy of it. ‘You look well.’

  ‘Thanks. So do you.’

  ‘Guess nobody cares how I look,’ came Hansen’s sandpaper voice.

  ‘You clearly don’t, given the state of your shirt.’ While Hansen inspected his garment, Gene stepped off the porch. ‘I’d thank you for telling us about this, but I’m not pleased about it. Nobody is. Not a soul in the department wants to tangle with Hearst.’

  ‘I don’t see the problem.’ Hansen sniffed the pit of his arm and shrugged, expecting worse. ‘He’s gonna have a war on his hands to fill his papers soon enough. Some sad old fruit offing himself in Hollywood won’t occupy much of the great man’s time.’

  ‘Is that what happened?’ I asked. ‘Baird committed suicide?’

  ‘We don’t know yet.’ Gene flicked the words at Hansen, not at me. ‘Though that’s how it looks.’

  ‘He helped himself to sleeping tablets, some kind of pills. How women usually do it,’ Hansen said. ‘Clean, not a lot of fuss. Have to say, we do appreciate it.’

  ‘He also left a note,’ Gene said. ‘Kept it short and to the point. “I am sorry for the grief I have caused.”’

  ‘And you’d know about causing grief.’ Hansen’s smile was faintly satanic.

  ‘What does that mean?’ I snapped.

  Hansen placed a hand on his chest in genuine surprise. Even Gene leaned back from me. ‘Only that you told us about this letter business,’ Hansen said. ‘What? Did you think I meant something else?’

  ‘It’s possible Baird’s note refers to the Argus letters, if Edith’s theory he was the one sending them is right. It’s still only a theory.’ Gene removed his hat, blotting his brow with his forearm. He nodded up the street in the direction Muncy had taken. ‘You know that fellow who happened to stop by?’

  ‘That was the first time I actually spoke to him.’

  Gene continued staring after him. ‘Strikes me as an odd duck.’

  ‘I’ll say.’ Hansen spat on the piebald lawn, the first moisture it had seen in weeks. ‘Started giving us a tour of the house, asking could he keep some of the old guy’s possessions. Why’s he palling around with someone has a good two decades on him?’ He spat again, this time aiming between his teeth. ‘You know what, scratch that. Pretty sure I can guess.’

  ‘I’ll have to discuss Baird’s death with Miss Davies. It’s been impressed upon me by the department to do so with discretion.’ Gene turned and looked pointedly at Hansen.

  His partner hooked a thumb at Baird’s house. ‘He had a lavender soap in there the missus might like. Gonna take a gander at the brand.’ He stepped back inside, the ancient screen door taking an eternity to close.

  ‘How’d you and Edith get involved with the Davies woman, anyway?’ Gene asked.

  ‘Addison. Marion was having a problem, and he thought we could help.’

  ‘That’s you all over.’ He grinned. ‘Always trying to help.’

  ‘Don’t say that.’ My voice was abruptly ragged, emotion bleeding through. I forced my eyes down to the cracked walkway, the incongruous brightness of a few stray dandelions struggling toward the sun.

  ‘It’s all right.’ Gene moved closer, letting me know comfort was nearby without directly offering it. ‘Whatever happened here wasn’t your fault. If Edith’s right, Baird had a screw loose and the guilt got to him. You can’t blame yourself.’

  I nodded at the dandelions. Naturally I blamed myself for Baird’s death, in adherence with a Catholic upbringing that taught me no good deed went unpunished. But what truly upset me was the idea that Gene’s dig was more personal. My effort to help when he was in trouble had chafed him, triggering our split. The thought that he would mention it mockingly proved almost too much to bear. But instead, he had been worried about me, and my well-worn habit of donning a hair shirt (or blouse) given the slightest reason.

  ‘I’m sorry you got one of those letters yourself,’ he said. ‘You should have called me. You can always do that, you know.’

  ‘You’re right. I should have. I thought of it.’ The smile I gave him felt wan upon my lips, a weak effort after too many takes. ‘What are you going to do now?’

  ‘Schedule an audience with Miss Davies, I suppose.’

  ‘You might want to unload Hansen first. He’s housebroken, but he hasn’t seen this house.’

  ‘Not a bad idea. Plus, i
t’d give me time to think. About why a man who’s been sending handwritten poison pen letters would type his suicide note. Leave it in the machine for us to find. And where the bottle of sleeping tablets or whatever he may have taken could have gotten to, because it doesn’t seem to be in the house.’

  ‘You think this was staged to look like a suicide?’

  Gene put his hat back on. He’d been sweating through the band. ‘Unless there’s a perfectly logical explanation for both those things, and it’s just too hot for me to think of it right now.’

  Los Angeles Register August 22, 1939

  LORNA WHITCOMB’S

  EYES ON HOLLYWOOD

  Why is Barbara Stanwyck rushing out of the studio when the director calls the last ‘Cut!’ of the day? She’s racing to hear another gent yell ‘Play Ball!’ Almost daily you’ll find her and hubby Robert Taylor in their seats at Gilmore Field, cheering on the Stars like regular folks – although while we buy peanuts, Babs and Bob picked up a stake in the team … Those of us who came to Los Angeles when orange groves outnumbered aspiring actresses were saddened to hear of the death of Clarence Baird, retired makeup artist. It seems eons, but it was less than twenty years ago when Baird plied his craft, beautifying the famous faces of the silent screen. In the tumult of a town with nary a moment for a backward glance, Baird’s name, along with those of the leading ladies he cherished like Billie Dove, Norma Talmadge and Mae Murray, is but a faint whisper … Marlene Dietrich has said ‘Non’ to starring in a French film and will return stateside for Destry Rides Again. What could be more fitting for the newly minted American citizen than a Western?

  NINE

  A night of uneasy dreams yielded to an early morning. I staggered blearily downstairs. Mrs Quigley hollered from her kitchen that the coffee was on. As Mrs Q had lost the ability to taste around the time Arizona joined the Union, and consequently her java could scorch a Studebaker’s gas tank, I decided a short walk was the preferable way to perk myself up.

  At the neighborhood newsstand, I bought a paper from Gus, the one-armed vendor who stood his post unfailingly every day. The banner headline assailed me from several feet away. Germany and Soviet Russia had signed a non-aggression pact. The British were stunned by this development, the Poles terrified. War in Europe was now a virtual certainty, although the paper talked of alternatives. Flames were licking at every corner of the room, yet we were being told we still had plenty of time to reach safety.