The Sharpest Needle

by Renee Patrick

  His second utterance of that sentence, and the first to sound like a threat. ‘You’re not an investigator.’

  ‘Neither are you! You’re some kind of secretary, and Miss Head is a costume designer.’

  He had me there. ‘And what are you, Carter?’

  Muncy blinked at me, his moist eyes quivering. ‘Clarence’s friend.’

  Dammit. I stared at him across the table, pretending there was a fifth of red-eye between us instead of two congealing plates of noodles. Muncy hadn’t earned the benefit of the doubt yet, but I had nothing to lose by giving it to him.

  ‘Why do you think Clarence didn’t kill himself?’

  ‘Because he wouldn’t. He’d threaten to. Or make a big dramatic attempt, maybe, if only to see who showed up in tears at his bedside. But he’d never go through with it.’

  I wondered if anybody needed a friend like Carter Muncy. ‘You knew we met with Clarence because of that letter he received.’

  ‘From somebody calling himself Argus.’ Muncy pulled a pair of cheap wire-rimmed eyeglasses out of his pocket, wiped them on his shirtfront, and wrapped them around his ears. I could still see a fingerprint on one of the lenses.

  ‘Did you see this letter?’

  ‘Yes. Clarence told me he’d gotten it, and thought it was strange. He laughed it off and said he should have thrown it away. But he hadn’t, so he showed to me.’

  ‘What did it say?’

  Muncy crossed his arms, resenting that I was testing him. ‘It mentioned Marion Davies and a ceremony. With lions.’

  ‘Do you know what that meant?’

  ‘No. Clarence refused to explain it, so I forgot about it. So did he, until Rudi got a similar letter.’

  ‘How did he seem when you drove him home after we met with him?’

  ‘Quiet. Clarence was pretty talkative as a rule. But that night, he was in a mood.’ Muncy tried to sink in his chair. He didn’t seem any smaller. ‘I thought it was maybe my fault.’

  ‘Clarence certainly seemed talkative. Did he ever talk about Marion?’

  ‘All the time. He adored her. Said she was his favorite star to work with. An absolute sweetheart.’

  ‘Would he gossip about her? Or anyone else?’

  Muncy flushed crimson. ‘He did, but I won’t repeat any of it. That scandalous stuff is irrelevant to me. The pictures themselves, that’s what matters.’

  Wouldn’t Kay be sorry to hear that. Muncy’s embarrassment had an edge of hostility to it, reminding me of some of the novice priests assigned to our parish back in Flushing. Intense young men who bridled when asked about subjects beyond their experience. Time to placate my aspiring sidekick.

  ‘That’s how you came to know Clarence, you said. Through the movies.’

  Muncy grinned hugely. The sight was disquieting. ‘The movies brought me out here. But then I suppose they bring most everyone. I’ve been fascinated by them since I was a boy. From the workings of the projectors to what they show.’ He ducked his head, abashed. The lenses of his glasses fogged. ‘I became a sort of collector. Of things and of people.’

  ‘People like Clarence.’

  ‘And his friends. Rudi and others who made pictures back in the twenties. I loved hearing their stories.’

  ‘Was Clarence happy to share?’

  ‘Always. He’d grumble whenever I asked about Barbara La Marr or Bessie Love, say, but I knew he was eager to talk about his work. He was flattered someone remembered.’

  After a brief hesitation, I took the plunge. ‘What would you say if I told you Clarence sent that letter to himself?’

  Muncy cocked his head, birdlike. For a moment I thought he’d done so to hide the tears he was shedding. But when he shifted his gaze back to me, he merely looked disappointed. ‘Now that you say it, I suppose it’s possible. If Clarence wanted Marion to pay attention to him. Which I guess he did. He hated the idea of being forgotten. That’s why he put up with me.’

  While he was in a contemplative if self-pitying frame of mind, I toyed with asking if he’d ever heard of Paolo Montsalvo. But I kept that card close to the vest and tucked into my dinner instead.

  As we ate, Muncy offered his own complicated theories about Baird’s death, none related to the Argus letters, all of them fixated on internecine feuds among veterans of the picture business. He had no compunction against repeating gossip about Clarence Baird, who, it would appear, had few equals when it came to inflicting slights and harboring grudges. Unable to keep track of all the potential malefactors without a program, I was soon reduced to occasional nods.

  ‘Anything you want to know from these people,’ he said, ‘I can ferret it out. I know the routine from pictures. I’ve seen all the Torchy Blane films. Even the new one with Jane Wyman, who’s not as good as Glenda Farrell.’ I assured him that Glenda would always be the best Torchy, and that such sleuthing on his part wouldn’t be necessary.

  Sensing he’d lost me, Muncy shifted the subject to what he called ‘your previous cases with Miss Head. Tell me everything, so I can pick up pointers.’ I fobbed off his interest, explaining that Edith and I let the police do the spadework and insisting that, whatever obligation he felt to Clarence Baird’s memory, he needed to do likewise. Slowly, it dawned on me that Muncy was mirroring my movements, mimicking me as I ate. Set the fork down. Pick up the napkin. Now a dainty sip of limeade. He didn’t do so in a mocking fashion. Muncy, it was clear, seldom socialized outside of a movie theater, and had no idea how to behave. His imitation might have been endearing had it not been so creepy.

  Now he sat stock still, and I realized my error: I was staring at him. Hastily, I blurted out the first thing that came to mind. ‘Tell me about this movie club you’re in. It sounds like my ideal way of spending the day.’

  ‘How’d you hear about it?’

  Nerts. Gene had told me, a fact I didn’t care to repeat. ‘Clarence mentioned it,’ I lied.

  ‘Did he say it was silly? He always thought so.’ He giggled, a strangely childish sound. ‘It’s simple: we see as many pictures in a day as we can. Last week I made it to seven. We saw Five Came Back again, King of the Turf. And Man About Town, with Jack Benny and your friend Edith Head doing the costumes! I applauded when I saw her name.’

  ‘I do the same thing.’

  ‘We’re planning to go to her latest this Sunday. The Star Maker, with Bing Crosby. You should come! There’s usually twelve or fifteen of us, although I’m often the only one who stays for the long haul. We’d love to have you.’

  I didn’t want Muncy to suspect anything, least of all that I’d be spending the weekend with Marion Davies at San Simeon, so I could hardly refuse. I inquired about particulars and made noise about catching up with them after Sunday mass.

  ‘I’ll save you a seat.’ Muncy’s saucer eyes turned rapturous. ‘It’s the most fun I have all week. I especially love settling in to one theater for a double feature. Sometimes we don’t move for hours.’

  My mouth went dry. I casually sipped limeade. ‘Did you do that last Sunday?’

  He nodded, beaming, and the glass nearly slipped from my hand. If Muncy and his cohort had set up camp in a theater for a protracted stay, he could have conceivably slipped out and returned without anyone noticing. It was possible, then, that Muncy didn’t have an alibi for Clarence Baird’s murder after all.

  ‘You know what I forgot?’ I said in a too-loud voice. ‘Jell-O. You can’t miss dessert.’

  ‘We should go to the sherbet cave instead. You stick your hand in, and a little bowl of sherbet comes up on a conveyor belt. I know it’s meant for children, but I can’t resist. It’s what I love about Los Angeles. Little bits of magic wherever you look.’

  I let Muncy lead the way. I wasn’t about to stick my hand in anything blindly.

  Los Angeles Register August 25, 1939

  LORNA WHITCOMB’S

  EYES ON HOLLYWOOD

  Knowing Barbara Stanwyck as we do, we can report the down-to-earth star isn’t one to cl
ear out her closet to make room for Paris’s latest fashion folly. So why is she wearing this year’s silliest style revival, the bustle? Turns out it’s part of a costume, a turn-of-the-century wedding dress created by Paramount maven Edith Head for Remember the Night … Whispers have it that Addison Rice, he of the fortune forged from radio parts and host of the most talked-about parties in Hollywood, has cancelled his weekend plans. We hope it’s not that summer cold that’s making the rounds … Has anyone asked Clark Gable to talk some sense into those belligerent folks over in Europe? After disarming an intruder earlier this month, he’s got the qualifications.

  FOURTEEN

  ‘All day at the movies! Sounds like fun.’

  ‘You have your own screening room, Addison. Nothing’s stopping you from doing that anytime you like.’

  ‘Ah, but there’s no popcorn. No cartoons or newsreels. No crowd roaring with laughter after a good gag. That used to be my favorite thing in the world, sneaking out of the office in the middle of the day for a movie. I saw Mary Pickford about as often as the vice president of the company. My secretary would always find me and drag me back to work.’

  ‘That’s because you weren’t inviting her along, the way you do with me.’

  In preparation for our excursion, I had lugged my suitcase to work. We planned on heading directly to the Glendale train station for our eight o’clock departure. During a mid-morning break, I relayed to Addison the tale of my curious dinner with Carter Muncy. I had told Gene, too, but he seemed less captivated by it.

  ‘He has an interesting idea, this Muncy,’ Addison said. ‘Talking to people who made films in the early days while they’re still with us. Witnesses to history. I hope he’s recording their stories for posterity.’

  ‘He didn’t say.’

  ‘It would be grand to see some of those films again as they were meant to be seen. Like Marion’s When Knighthood Was in Flower, for instance.’

  ‘I’m sure W.R. has a copy he can thread up,’ I said. ‘I wonder how big a paying audience you’d get, though.’

  ‘Oh, I understand, fashions change. People want talking pictures now. But surely there are those who’d appreciate seeing how far pictures have come. Or what clothing and cars used to look like in olden times. Or who’d simply want to enjoy a film they’d seen in their youth.’

  ‘I agree with you. But Edith once said each movie was only so much sausage being made, meant to be consumed then forgotten. Maybe you, me, and Carter Muncy are taking this too seriously.’

  My employer wasn’t listening, judging from the faraway look in his eyes. ‘Someone should do something,’ Addison muttered in an abstracted tone, indicating that someone might well be him. I rose to leave him with his thoughts.

  ‘Incidentally,’ he called after me, ‘Marion sent a package for you yesterday. It’s in the kitchen.’

  In that room, I discovered a crate of gin accompanied by a note reading Bring along some, would you? I hoisted two of the bottles and set out to repack my grip. Again.

  My suitcase clanking minimally, we made our way through the Glendale train station. I wore a sturdy cinnamon brown travelling suit, dark enough to mask the vicissitudes of road and rail. Addison, meanwhile, resembled a Southern attorney in light blue seersucker topped by a Panama hat.

  We were steered toward a private rail car. Clambering aboard, I understood I could have dressed in white organza, such was the pampering provided for our pilgrimage. The appointments were lush and drinks were already being poured, my secret cache of gin not yet required. Representatives of Mr Hearst assured us they would attend to our every need while in transit.

  ‘W.R.’s finances must be in a state,’ Addison whispered. ‘He used to take us up to the ranch in an entire train. With several sleepers and a diner.’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘This is truly roughing it.’

  Several other guests were already partaking of Mr Hearst’s hospitality. The Duke and Duchess of Chalfont – unless it was Chalford, the duke’s walrus-like mustache taking half the name captive – would likely have sniffed at Addison had he not shown them his back first, Addison never caring much for nobility. Another couple sat with them, as gray-faced and plastered as the statues that undoubtedly adorned the entryway to their palatial abode, but we never got around to introductions.

  A fellow strode toward us, hand outstretched. His dark suit bore the unmistakable precision of Savile Row tailoring, and his cologne smelled of spices I couldn’t identify. ‘Name’s Selden, Anthony Selden,’ he said in an English accent. ‘I certainly know you, Mr Rice. Might I suggest a cocktail or three now? You won’t get many at the ranch.’

  Selden had abandoned another man at the far end of the car in his haste to greet Addison. This guest seemed more woefully out of place than I did, in a brown suit that looked borrowed for the occasion, unconcerned about his dark hair flying every which way. He smiled indolently after Selden and resumed doodling in the notebook spread across his lap.

  The carriage lurched as Selden turned toward us with two generously poured cocktails. Naturally, he spilled nary a drop. ‘Away we go,’ he said, and away we went.

  The duke and duchess broke out a backgammon board, their well-lubricated friends serving as spectators. The aspiring artist at the end of the carriage seemed content to be alone, leaving us with Anthony Selden for company. He began by offering tips, like an unctuous travel agent, for how to get the most out of the weekend at Hearst’s ranch, blithely unaware that Addison had been to the house before.

  ‘No need for me to ask what you do,’ Selden said chummily to Addison, ignoring me entirely. ‘I’m an art dealer myself. Done quite a bit of business over the years with W.R.’

  ‘Now I imagine it’s going the other way,’ Addison replied. ‘With him selling more than buying these days.’

  ‘True, circumstances have forced him to make some of his acquisitions available. But nothing will stop a man like W.R. from collecting.’

  ‘It’s a real sickness, according to my aunt Joyce. Collecting,’ I clarified. The martini I’d downed half of certainly was strong. At this rate, we might have to raid my stash of gin before we reached Santa Barbara.

  Selden smiled indulgently. ‘It’s a fascinating time to be in my line, I must say. Tremendous activity in markets around the globe. Lots of treasures available for those with an eye and an inclination.’

  ‘War is good for business, then.’ I pushed the dregs of my martini away. No more for you, Lillian.

  Selden had honed the salesman’s skill of lavishing attention on the person who mattered, in this case Addison. I was as relevant as a fly buzzing around the baggage car ahead. ‘By way of example, I’m recently back from Switzerland. A very big sale there. Some astounding artwork, at prices that were quite reasonable.’

  ‘You mean reasonable for me, I assume. Not for Lillian here.’ Addison, bless him, taking pains to involve me in the conversation.

  ‘That would depend on how generous an employer you are.’ Forced to acknowledge me, Selden winked in my direction. ‘It was exclusively modern art. Hardly W.R.’s line, but fortunately I have other clients. W.R. is a traditionalist in the grand sense. Favors work in the vein of the Old Masters.’

  Which he keeps in his house, out of public view. Provided he even unpacks them from their crates. I wondered when martinis had made me so judgmental.

  ‘The Germans aren’t keen on this modern stuff, are they?’ Addison asked. ‘I read about an exhibit they had over there. Hanging paintings up so they could point fingers and laugh.’

  Selden nodded gravely. ‘Yes, in Munich in 1937. Entartete Kunst. Degenerate Art. A travesty, that. A showing of work the Nazi authorities deemed unworthy of Aryan ideals. Ludicrous posturing on their part. I was at that exhibition, too.’

  ‘You certainly hit the hot spots.’ As the words left my mouth, I felt embarrassed. Even Addison fired a warning glance in my direction.

  Determined to ignore me, Selden dug in his artfully weathered briefc
ase. ‘In fact, the auction I attended in Lucerne consisted of many of those works, plus others the Nazis placed in that category. I have the catalogue with me, as it happens. A client of mine in Los Angeles asked to see it. He missed out on some rare bargains, I don’t mind telling you.’

  He presented a tan folio to Addison, who fanned its pages perfunctorily. Selden reached out a hand for it, but Addison, enjoying himself now, gave it to me instead. I leafed through the book slowly, appraising black-and-white renderings of artwork for sale. A bearded man, hair so tightly shorn it gave his skull an almost alien appearance, gazed out watchfully; a self-portrait by Vincent van Gogh. A Pablo Picasso painting of a young boy in a harlequin costume, seated opposite a man whose body seemed contorted in pain.

  Selden readied himself for the kill. ‘May I ask, Addison, are you yourself a connoisseur? Because if so, I’d be honored to assist you in filling any blank spaces on your home’s walls.’

  ‘Do you sell movie posters?’ Addison chuckled. ‘That’s mostly what I have now, to my wife’s lasting regret.’

  ‘Shall we expand your palette, then? Bring new life and color to Maison Rice?’

  I continued turning the catalogue’s pages, not seeing anything decadent or insulting. A few pieces I didn’t personally like, one or two I doubted I understood.

  ‘Not a bad idea. Lord knows Maud would appreciate it.’ Addison reclined his head against the seat, the better to flash me a covert grin. ‘There’s one artist whose work intrigues me. Italian fellow. Montsalvo.’

  Selden’s entire body tensed, but only briefly. He was practiced at hiding his alarm, any untoward emotions swaddled in velvet and neatly packed as part of the white glove service he provided. ‘An artist more of W.R.’s liking. I haven’t heard of any of his work being available lately. What about it speaks to you?’