The Sharpest Needle

by Renee Patrick

  After work, I went to a newsreel theater on Hollywood Boulevard. The films were days or even weeks old, not caught up to current events, but I craved context, longed to put faces to the names in the newspapers. The theater was jam-packed, the atmosphere as solemn as a cathedral’s on Easter Sunday. We watched people strut around the past, confident their efforts to avert catastrophe would bear fruit.

  Back home, Mrs Quigley refused to alter her habits to accommodate international chaos. She continued listening to her quiz shows at top volume as she puttered in her kitchen. I yelled in a greeting as I sorted the day’s mail. I’d been approaching the task with dread ever since receiving correspondence from Argus, fearing a follow-up. Today I was relieved to see an envelope bearing familiar handwriting. My uncle Danny had been schooled by Christian Brothers who dispensed their lessons with a ruler across the knuckles, yet somehow he had the most exquisite penmanship I’d ever seen. I settled into my favorite chair, prepared for the neighborhood news to be cut with Danny’s usual ration of small-minded clannishness.

  Dear Lillian,

  I’ve time for only a few words, pet, but I never want a week to pass without writing. Joyce sends her love. She is having a devil of a time with one of those fierce summer colds so I have sent her off to bed early.

  Not much to report, other than Feeney’s Market has finally closed. You know those old ‘moneylenders’ will never give hard-working people like us a break. Joyce now walks two blocks over for groceries because I won’t give Old Man Schreiber my business no matter how good his potato salad. I liked that movie of Beau Geste, so please tell your Paramount friends more of the same!

  If I know you, you are reading all the news from Europe and working yourself into a lather. Please do not worry. What is happening there is miles from any of us and sure we’ve no part in it anyway. Maybe don’t read the news so much is my advice.

  That’s all for now, pet. Everyone on the fourth floor sends their love.

  Danny

  P.S. Jimmy Laverty passed on a bit of sad news. He says your father died. He was in Texas or Oklahoma, working in an oil field. Say a rosary for him if you feel like it.

  The single sheet of impossibly neat lettering slipped from my fingers. I found it hard to breathe. I found it harder to understand why.

  Liam Frost had left when I was three, soon after my mother’s death. He’d made no announcement, simply dropping me off with my aunt Joyce one morning. He’d never returned, or sent word of any kind. I couldn’t recall what he looked or sounded like. My only impression of my father was a heavy woolen red-and-black coat reeking of cigarettes that he’d wear indoors. Not because he was cold, but because he was always coming or going, never staying. I had no sense of him as a person, unless you counted Joyce’s habit of leaving the room whenever his name was mentioned, or Danny’s regular belittling of him; relegating word of his passing to a postscript showed Danny’s level of respect for him, as did his suggestion to say a rosary in my father’s honor only if I felt like it.

  I had no idea how he died, or even where. He’d been working in an oil field, apparently, yet I possessed so little knowledge of him I couldn’t tell if this fact was incongruous. Was the job a step up, a step down, or exactly where Liam Frost belonged?

  He hadn’t been a part of my life for over twenty years, and when he was around he’d made little impact. I’d think of him from time to time, wondering what I’d say if we ever met, provided one of us even recognized the other. I’d always supposed that conversation would at some point take place. Now, in an afterthought, I’d learned it never would.

  Logically, I had no cause to feel devastated. Someone I knew hadn’t died; someone I wouldn’t ever know had. But logic didn’t matter. Vast tracts of uncharted geography, terrain I’d idly assumed I’d someday explore, had been abruptly ripped away. That’s what made the loss so terrifying, so overwhelming. I wasn’t sure what had been taken from me, only that it was forever gone.

  The tears came in an angry flood. I sank to the side of my bed, sobbing, to say a rosary for him. I had my eyes screwed tightly shut, so I shrieked when something brushed against my leg. Miss Sarah, wandering in in queenly fashion. I’d left my door open.

  I ran to shut it, keeping Miss Sarah in my apartment so I wouldn’t be alone.

  ELEVEN

  The next morning, Germany continued to insist it would overrun Poland if it didn’t recover all the land taken from it after the Great War. Britain refused to capitulate. France resolved to support the British. And my father was still dead.

  I read the news at my desk in Addison’s house. The scents of roses and eucalyptus surged through the open windows but couldn’t penetrate the doleful aura enshrouding me. I felt numb in places I didn’t know I had. Even my wardrobe seemed forlorn; not in the mood to contemplate clothes, I’d pulled a brown dress and a pair of brown and white oxfords from my closet. Seeking a last-minute burst of color, I’d grabbed pale pink gloves but hadn’t bothered to put them on.

  Addison took one look at me and threatened to confiscate my newspapers. ‘You’ve got to concentrate on something else, for heaven’s sake. You can’t allow events beyond your control to cause such gloom.’

  ‘It’s not the news,’ I admitted.

  ‘What is it, then?’

  I hesitated. I’d told no one about my uncle Danny’s letter. I hadn’t offered a word of explanation when Mrs Q inquired how I’d slept, saying I looked haggard. I had to share the truth with someone, if only to make it official, to add my father’s passing to the world’s roster of indisputable facts.

  Addison ordered me to stand up, so he could hug me. He asked if I wanted to go home. I said I couldn’t bear to be by myself. He asked if I needed help expediting my trip to New York for the funeral. I explained that services, if there’d been any, had already taken place in the wilds of Texas or Oklahoma. He asked if there was anything he could do. I told him he’d done enough, and cried on his shoulder a little.

  I kept my manner upbeat as I fielded Addison’s daily barrage of telephone calls. I answered one with my greeting sounding chipper in my own ears, as it was all I had to listen to. No one responded at the other end of the line. I removed my earring, held the receiver closer, and tried again.

  ‘It’s me,’ Marion whispered. Her voice sounded strained. ‘I couldn’t think who else to call. I got another letter from Argus. In this morning’s mail.’

  I ignored my first instinct, to tell her that was impossible. After a moment, I asked, ‘Are you sure it’s from the same correspondent?’

  ‘No, I’m not. I mean, it’s signed, Argus. But this letter is typed. On really nice paper, too.’

  ‘When was it sent?’

  ‘Yesterday.’

  A tremor ran through me. A letter postmarked Monday could conceivably have been mailed by Clarence Baird before his death. But Tuesday left no room for doubt; either Baird hadn’t written the letters, or – more likely, given the change in technique – someone else had taken over Argus’s duties.

  ‘Something else is different about this letter,’ Marion continued. ‘There’s a definite point to it. Argus has a demand.’

  ‘Can you read the letter to me?’

  Marion exhaled several times before she began, and again after I read it back to confirm I’d recorded it correctly.

  Miss Davies,

  Isn’t it a shame about C.B.? You wouldn’t want to have your good name tied to that, I expect. My silence can be bought for a painting. Madonna of the Hills by Paolo Montsalvo. Await further instructions.

  Argus

  ‘Shame’ and ‘painting’ had been underscored to bring the menace home. I did likewise on the sheet of stationery on which I’d transcribed the words as I decided which of my many questions to pose first.

  ‘Who is Montsalvo?’

  ‘I had to ask W.R. to find out.’ Marion’s voice trembled as she spoke the initials. ‘Pretended I’d come across his name in a magazine article. Now W.R. wants to read the
darned thing. I have to hope he forgets about it. Montsalvo’s an Italian painter. Or he was. Been dead for ages. Big on religious subjects.’

  ‘Including Madonna of the Hills, which I gather you own?’

  Marion made a scornful noise. ‘I don’t. W.R. does. Which is funny, because I’m more likely to buy a painting than he is. He’d rather stock up on tapestries and suits of armor. But he bought several Montsalvos a few years ago. W.R. says he likes the pastoral feel of them, whatever that means.’

  ‘Then whoever sent this letter knows Mr Hearst owns the painting, and you can get it for him.’

  ‘Yes, about that.’ Marion was holding the receiver so close I could hear her swallow. ‘The trouble is I don’t know where the painting is. W.R. buys so much art, then stores it. Once he came across a reference to a set of Irish silver in an old magazine. It had gone up for sale and then vanished, and W.R. wanted it tracked down. His people couldn’t locate it, so he hired a detective to find it for him. W.R. always has a few snoopers on call.’ A dash of bitterness curdled her words. ‘Anyway, the report finally came back. This coveted set of Irish silver had been purchased six years earlier … by William Randolph Hearst! He’d bought the silver, locked it away, and promptly forgotten about it! I said to him, ‘Well, you’re going to get it out of storage now, aren’t you? This better be some set of silver. I want to see it.’ He never did. He’s happy just knowing it’s his. He’ll probably wind up selling it without ever clapping eyes on the stuff.’

  Not for the first time, I found myself flummoxed for a response to Marion. ‘Can you find out where the Montsalvo is?’

  ‘It’ll take some doing without asking W. R. The likeliest place for the painting to be is at one of the warehouses at the ranch, near San Simeon. We’re heading there tomorrow for a few days, but I can’t bear the thought of trying to dig the painting up by myself. Oh, I know!’ She practically yelled the last thought, then shushed herself.

  ‘What?’ I dumbly asked, not seeing the obvious destination that lay dead ahead.

  ‘You can come up to visit! Don’t you see, Lillian, it will be perfect. I’ll invite Addison, and he can bring you. We’re planning a simple, quiet weekend, just a few guests from abroad, some movie folks. You met Walter Kehoe the other day, he’ll be there. At some point, you and I can slip away and track down this Madonna painting with W.R. none the wiser. Oh, you have to do it, Lillian, please.’

  I couldn’t say no. I couldn’t say anything, not with my imagination beggared by the thought of what a ‘simple, quiet weekend’ at perhaps the grandest house in the United States might entail, and by the notion of my being part of it. I marshaled my resources and told Marion I’d present the idea for Addison’s approval, and convinced her to contact Gene. I even offered to telephone him first to minimize the time she’d have to speak to him. Marion vowed to have the official invitation delivered by driver that afternoon. She took Addison’s acceptance as a foregone conclusion; she whispered, ‘We’re going to have such fun, the two of us,’ before she ended the call.

  ‘Read the letter to me again,’ Gene instructed. I did.

  ‘I suppose upping the ante to blackmail shouldn’t come as a surprise, considering our busy correspondent in all likelihood has already committed murder. You’ve got to figure Baird wrote the first letters, then asked a question he shouldn’t have. Now about this trip with Marion. Are you going to go?’

  I told him it had already been decided. Addison was beside himself at the prospect of both revisiting the Hearst ranch at San Simeon and playing a role in saving Marion from jeopardy. I had cancelled his weekend plans and responded to Marion’s invitation, which noted that Mr Hearst would take care of our travel needs. All we had to do was present ourselves on Friday evening at the train station in Glendale, on the other side of Griffith Park. Before panic could overtake me, I’d scheduled an afternoon meeting with Edith to update her and, more importantly, discuss what to pack.

  ‘I don’t like this,’ Gene said. ‘This Argus knows Hearst’s inventory and Davies’s past. He was also willing to kill Baird to keep him quiet. And you’re heading up to the middle of nowhere.’

  ‘Where I’ll be surrounded by Hearst personnel. I doubt our letter writer will try anything at the ranch. It’s probably the safest place I can be.’

  ‘Provided you scare up this Montsalvo painting. Can’t imagine buying a thing like that and not knowing where you put it, like it’s a pair of glasses. And from what I hear, the size of this house won’t make it easy.’

  ‘I guarantee it’ll be in the last place we look.’

  ‘What gives, Frost?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You should be bouncing off the walls at the chance to visit Hearst’s ranch. It’s one of the most famous homes in the country. You know how I know? Even I’ve heard of it. You usually live for this kind of thing. But you sound down at the mouth. Anything wrong?’

  My fingers strayed to my uncle Danny’s letter, tucked into my purse. You share your pain with your friends, I thought. That’s what they’re there for. Isn’t Gene a friend?

  ‘No,’ I told him. ‘Just tired.’

  TWELVE

  A man’s voice – highly animated and quite familiar – spilled through the open door of Edith’s office. I waited outside until Preston Sturges swept past the threshold mid-rant. Pivoting in his white bucks, Paramount’s scribe supreme bid me enter. ‘Come in, Lillian. I have no secrets.’

  ‘Certainly not at that volume,’ Edith deadpanned. She wore a navy skirt and a white blouse with divine buttons that looked like daisies. ‘I was commiserating with Preston about Mitch Leisen.’

  ‘Have you met him? My condolences.’ Sturges collapsed into a chair, a heap in a well-tailored tan summer suit. He maintained his coxcomb of hair at a length perfect for running his fingers through it in consternation. ‘The man is pushing me to do something rash, namely direct a picture myself.’

  ‘Then you plan to make good on that threat at last.’ Edith was enjoying herself.

  ‘This time I’m serious. Look at the deal this Welles got over at RKO. Carte blanche they’ve given the boy wonder, and he’s never written a picture, much less directed one. I deserve the same consideration, surely.’ His thumbnail brushed each half of his mustache in turn. ‘I met Welles when he was a prep school princeling. Somehow got himself invited along to lunches at the Tavern Club in Chicago. I’d stop there to see friends when I was in town during my ill-advised thespian days. Struck me as an enormous pampered child. The sort of person who asks myriad questions, then answers them for you while the soup grows cold. Insufferable.’

  ‘His radio shows are impressive,’ I said, wanting in on the needling of Sturges’s ego.

  ‘That’s hardly the point, Lillian. The point is Mitch Leisen isn’t shooting my script. He’s already jettisoned a great scene with Stany, where she goes to church with MacMurray’s family and is moved by the sermon.’

  ‘I quite liked that bit,’ Edith said.

  ‘Mitch won’t even shoot it. Pulled the pages right out of the script. He probably thinks it’s hokum, sham sophisticate that he is. He’s rewritten the character of Stany’s mother – God forbid she be too much of an ogress – and he’s as much as said he’s going to cut a terrific sequence between MacMurray and his valet that’s already been filmed. Some of the sharpest dialogue I’ve ever written, consigned to the scrapheap.’

  ‘If it’s of such sterling quality, I imagine you can find a home for it elsewhere.’

  ‘We’re not talking about a piece of fabric here, Edith. Some swatch you can readily transform into a peplum.’ Sturges leapt to his feet, resentment energizing him as it did so many in Hollywood. ‘Speaking of which, by all accounts Mitch regularly rails against your costumes as well. The man has become nigh-on unbearable since his heart attack. I want to be unbearable, too.’

  ‘You’re planning a heart attack of your own?’ Edith frowned mockingly at him. ‘Under a doctor’s care, I hope.’<
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  ‘No. I’m going to direct. Somebody has to protect my work.’

  I sank into the chair Sturges had surrendered, the badinage suddenly exhausting me. Edith took note of my sitting down.

  ‘If it helps, Preston, you’re more than halfway to unbearable as it is.’ She skillfully maneuvered Sturges out of the room, the writer issuing promises to proceed with his plan as he exited.

  ‘You would appear to have a weekend for the ages to prepare for.’ Edith peered at me closely. ‘Is anything wrong?’

  ‘Not really. I did get some news from home.’ Then, once again, I burst into tears. Why was this happening with such frequency? I spit out the details. Edith embraced me.

  ‘Come along,’ she said into my ear. ‘Let’s get out of here for a while.’

  We made our way to Lucey’s, the red-tile-roofed redoubt on Melrose Avenue conveniently located opposite both Paramount and RKO. I told Edith I couldn’t possibly eat. She ordered two omelettes aux fines herbes, insisting, ‘Eggs are perfect when you need to keep your strength up.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I told her, dabbing my eyes. ‘I don’t understand why I’m so upset. I never knew my father. He had nothing to do with my life.’

  ‘A fact that nonetheless made an impression upon you.’ Edith studied me with a compassion that was bracingly direct. ‘His absence helped form you. It doesn’t matter that you didn’t know him well, or at all. He was a part of your history, and that part is gone. Now this absence will help form you.’

  I nodded gratefully. After a moment, I said, ‘Could we maybe talk about Marion now?’

  I recounted Marion’s frantic phone call, handing Edith my transcription of the latest letter. ‘You were right,’ I said. ‘Something bigger is afoot here. Is it possible Baird didn’t write any of the Argus letters?’

  ‘Yes,’ Edith said slowly, ‘but I continue to aver that he knew they were being sent. I believe he was at the very least an accomplice, and a partially witting one.’