The Sharpest Needle

by Renee Patrick

  As he bowed again, Duval handed business cards to Edith and to me. They bore only the agency’s name, I noticed, not hers. ‘Reasonable rates and sound judgment,’ she said, the puckish note in her voice like the kick of vermouth in a martini. I knew then that she’d keep my secret, and I’d never lie again. Not with the Good Lord and Margaret Duval watching.

  Paulette Goddard took her time getting to her feet. ‘Pull together something slinky for the photos of me in the bedroom, Edith. And remember what I said about adding some business to my clothes. Bob Hope will be mugging in every one of these pictures. I’m going to need all the help I can get.’

  I clocked in at Addison’s around lunchtime and toiled into the evening to atone for my tardiness. I came home to find one of Mrs Quigley’s borderline-illegible message slips indicating Simon had telephoned. No word, alas, from Marion. I felt gratified by Simon’s call – and dread at the notion of returning it. He expected to talk to the woman he’d been with last night, and I wasn’t that woman at the moment. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever be her again.

  Later, as I rolled over to press the cool side of the pillow to my cheek, I fleetingly realized I hadn’t called him back. I was still pondering the significance of that oversight when I drifted off to sleep.

  Los Angeles Register August 30, 1939

  LORNA WHITCOMB’S

  EYES ON HOLLYWOOD

  Comes news from France that Madeleine Carroll has dropped her divorce suit against Captain Philip Astley. Some say the British beauty balked because of war clouds on the horizon. Others whisper the reason was the couple’s recent romantic Parisian vacation … As temperatures rise, so does anticipation for this weekend’s sure-to-be boisterous bash at Marion Davies’s beach house. Partygoers can dress as saints or sinners. More than a few names on the guest list wouldn’t need a costume for the latter role … Don’t ask Joe E. Lewis how a night at the Chianti restaurant on Melrose ended with him sporting a plate of spaghetti on his shirtfront. The usually gregarious comedian is staying mum. We hear it wasn’t a wobbly waiter who caused the mess but a lovely lady making a point with ‘pasta’. That’s what we call using your noodle!

  TWENTY-THREE

  The human form, I believed, possessed an innate wisdom. On days when my mind was in a deep muddle – a commonplace occurrence – I trusted my body to tell me what was required. That morning’s instructions: maple syrup, coffee, and a friend. Luckily, Vi was free for breakfast.

  I was already savaging a stack of pancakes at one of our beloved beaneries when she arrived, a vision in a poppy linen dress. She’d shucked the matching short-sleeved jacket. ‘How can it be this hot this early? We’re going to stick to this booth.’

  ‘I had them leave the spatula just in case.’ I’d opted for a white crepe dress with scattered black outlines of flowers, while the bib was black with white flowers. Had the colors been reversed, I’d have gone home and changed.

  Vi, no fool, immediately asked what was troubling me. I admitted my conversation with Gene had me flustered. ‘He’s hard to read,’ I said. ‘Although he was awfully sweet when I talked about my father.’

  ‘I hope it was OK I let him know about that the last time I saw him.’

  I set down my fork, scarcely knowing how to begin digesting what she’d said. ‘Hold on. He knew my father had died?’

  ‘I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry, Lillian.’

  ‘It’s perfectly fine. But what do you mean, “the last time”? When was this?’

  ‘Over the weekend, while you were at Hearst’s ranch. He stopped by the show at the Spruce and said hi after my number.’

  ‘That was nice of him. Do you see him a lot?’

  ‘We run into each other all the time. And these meetings aren’t exactly accidental, if you follow my drift.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘He asks after you. Every single time. That’s why he sets up these chance howdy-dos. On Saturday he as much as said he was worried about you, thought you were acting queer. That’s when the news about your father slipped out.’

  ‘He … I’m confused. Why would – is he carrying a torch?’

  ‘If you’re asking me, yes.’

  I waved my napkin like a flag of surrender. ‘Then why did we break up?’

  I knew the answer, of course. Gene tolerated my meddling when it came to helping Edith, or Addison, or any celebrity who circuited their circles. But not when it came to his own life. When he found himself in trouble, he not only resisted but resented my attempts to assist him, to the extent that we had stopped going together. Now I’d learned he’d been keeping watch over me. Had he wondered why I hadn’t shared word of my vagabond father’s death? Had he been waiting for the chance to express carefully weighed words of sympathy? While I, feeling adrift and needing something or someone to cling to, had turned to Simon?

  ‘Beats me.’ Vi topped her flapjacks with syrup. ‘For people meant to be together, you two work awful hard to stay apart.’

  Addison greeted me on the portico, giving his handkerchief a workout as he mopped perspiration from his brow. ‘Good Lord, it’s going to be a scorcher. This may be the only time I venture outdoors today. Marion telephoned. She says it’s urgent.’

  She had left an unfamiliar number, which I presumed to be Wyntoon. The chilly-voiced retainer who answered confirmed as much, then fetched Marion. I had to ask her to stop whispering.

  ‘I have two pieces of news. I found it. Took some doing to get it out of the warehouse without W.R. noticing, but it’s on its way to the beach house in a truck with some other odds and ends for this weekend’s party. W.R. and I will beat it there. We’re flying down shortly.’

  ‘That’s good to hear.’

  ‘The second part’s the bad news.’ She started whispering again. ‘I received another letter from Argus this morning. Here, at Wyntoon. He knows where I am better than I do, the busybody.’

  ‘What does it say?’

  ‘I won’t read it again, if you don’t mind.’ Her voice implied a shudder. ‘It says he’ll take the … the thing from me at Friday’s party. Nothing about how. “I will make myself known to you,” he wrote. Or typed, I should say. Suppose I hadn’t found it in time? Would he have taken an IOU? Then he says I’d better come across with it after the late unpleasantness. I don’t even know what that means.’

  I explained that Carter Muncy had penned the first letters, and that I’d found him dead. After several seconds of silence, I heard Marion softly sobbing. ‘This keeps getting worse.’

  To steady her nerves, I told her about our unexpected meeting with Charlie Chaplin. The gambit worked; Marion brightened at once. ‘Charlie did that for me? What a dear man. He can be arbitrary at times, taking the other side of an argument simply because he’s in the mood for an argument. He had a scrap with W.R. once about how he’d never make a talking picture because they wouldn’t last and, sure enough, now he’s making one. But he’s like a rock, he truly is. I’m going to telephone him and thank him for his kindness.’ Calmer now, she returned to the matter at hand. ‘Does this letter mean the person who killed poor Clarence and this other fellow is someone I invited to my party? Someone I know?’

  ‘It’s quite likely,’ I allowed. ‘You should call Detective Morrow before you fly down and let him know.’

  ‘Oh, all right.’ Marion sighed. ‘But how am I supposed to host a party with all this going on?’

  My breathless excitement had no impact on Edith when she came on the line. She spoke forcefully over me. ‘I am literally on my way out the door. I solved the problem of Barbara Stanwyck’s hat for Mitch Leisen and I’m off to Agoura with the fruit of my labors. Don’t even start to tell me your news. If you can get yourself to Paramount Ranch, we might be able to talk. Otherwise, call me tonight.’ I squeaked out a ‘But Marion—’ before she hung up.

  I was still contemplating my next move when the telephone rang. ‘You never returned my call.’ Simon aimed for a note of playfulness but fell short.
He sounded aggrieved.

  ‘I’m sorry. I had to deal with Gene first thing yesterday and the rest of the day got away from me.’

  ‘Care to discuss it over lunch?’

  ‘I can’t. I’m trying to figure out if I want to take the afternoon off and go to Agoura.’

  ‘Up to Paramount Ranch? To see Edith? I’ll take you.’

  ‘What? Are you serious?’

  ‘I’m about to eat something that will disagree with me. Only thing for it is to punch out early and go lie down. I’ll be there in a few shakes. No studio car this time. Just my own.’

  A Lodestar Pictures vehicle would have been preferable. Simon’s car had a certain rattletrap charm, but offered no respite from the steadily mounting heat. We cranked down the windows and yelled over the engine’s growl.

  ‘Morrow give you a hard time?’

  ‘Not as much as I thought he would,’ I allowed.

  ‘That’s because he still has a yen for you. Did you have an excuse ready when he asked why you went to Muncy’s place alone?’

  ‘I told him my father had died.’

  Simon snickered. ‘Bet that threw him.’ He glanced over at me. ‘No, wait. Did he? Your father.’

  I provided the barest details. I had decided, apparently and perhaps unwisely, to test Simon. He said nothing at first, keeping his eyes on the road. ‘Your father walked out on you, right? Left you with Uncle Danny and Aunt Joyce? Good riddance.’

  Now it was my turn to focus on the way ahead.

  ‘That’s what I should say, isn’t it?’ Simon asked. ‘The man chose not to have anything to do with you. You’re better off not having anything to do with him. Don’t shed a tear on his account. Think of him as often as he thought of you.’

  ‘I don’t know how often that was.’

  ‘That’s my point.’

  ‘It’s not a good one. What if he was racked with guilt? What if he said a prayer for me every night?’

  ‘He’d do that but couldn’t send you a letter?’

  ‘I didn’t know him.’

  ‘So why get upset?’

  ‘Because now I’ll never know him.’

  Simon started to speak, faltered, tried again. ‘And that’s what’s upset you?’

  ‘I haven’t figured out what’s upset me.’

  He nodded. ‘I didn’t say what you wanted to hear.’

  ‘That’s all right.’

  ‘But it’s what you need to hear. Forget the old man the way he forgot you.’

  The rumble of the engine filled the car.

  We stopped outside Malibu for hamburgers. The air was warmer than the meat, and more thoroughly cooked. Simon and I made stilted conversation about the famous people he’d driven in recent weeks.

  His car’s engine wheezed as we climbed into the Santa Monica Mountains toward Agoura. I felt every bump in the rutted road twisting its way to the Paramount Ranch. A dusty cowhand strutting out of the Western town set directed us to the Remember the Night shoot in a clipped Boston accent. ‘Just follow all the shouting,’ he said with a smirk. ‘They’re near Marco Polo Hill.’

  As Simon shifted gears he asked, ‘Marco Polo Hill?’

  ‘They filmed part of The Adventures of Marco Polo with Gary Cooper there.’

  ‘And Cooper was Marco Polo? Suppose it’s better than casting him as a Chinaman.’

  We rambled through several of the few thousand acres Paramount used to double for far-flung locations. Chaparral grew in dense thickets not far from broad, savanna-like fields, with mountains cupping both landscapes. Every few yards yielded another impressive vista of the Pacific. It truly felt like we could be anywhere on the globe, and not only because I glimpsed what looked like a Mexican bullfighting ring and a French château.

  Nothing so elaborate was required for the production of Remember the Night, only a herd of cows. The animals nosed around a car parked alongside a piece of farm equipment under a tarpaulin, a few fences behind them. They didn’t seem in a hurry to go anywhere, the heat having an effect on them, too. The crew huddled around the camera. I spied Edith, who had retreated to one of the few patches of shade. She had dressed for both the location and the inferno, with a black skirt to hide any dirt and an oatmeal-colored loose-weave linen blouse providing enough ventilation. She’d tied her hair back with a yellow scarf, which she wore with dark glasses. I waved my black straw hat at her. From near the camera, Mitchell Leisen glowered at me.

  Simon brought the car to a halt. ‘I’ll hole up in Deadwood with a sarsaparilla until you’re ready to go home.’

  ‘I don’t know how long I’ll be.’

  ‘I’ve got no pressing business elsewhere.’

  ‘I can’t ask you to wait on a day like this. Don’t worry about me.’ Only I knew what I was really saying – that I’d rather chance a wild ride down the hillside with Edith at the wheel than prolong my awkward chatter with Simon.

  He shrugged. ‘If you’re sure.’ I told him I was, then kissed him. I tasted dust and charred hamburger. Simon winked at me and drove off.

  Edith walked over, her dark glasses concealing her judgment of our farewell. ‘You made it,’ she said. ‘It must be important.’

  I briefed Edith as we watched the crew from a distance. Leisen had sweated through his shirt but that didn’t stop him from working himself into a tizzy, pointing at individual cows as if giving them line readings. His stars, Barbara Stanwyck and Fred MacMurray, broiled patiently in a car that clearly lacked air-conditioning. From what I could discern, their characters had slept in the vehicle.

  ‘Miss Davies is indeed fortunate she found the Montsalvo,’ Edith said with gravity. ‘Argus is not to be trifled with.’

  ‘What would he do if she didn’t find it? Could Argus have the film that Charlie Chaplin is after?’

  ‘Possibly. With luck, the situation won’t come to that.’

  Stanwyck and MacMurray exited the vehicle. At least I assumed it was them; the two figures who emerged were dressed for Christmas shopping, swaddled in several layers of clothes. Simply looking at them made me feel faint. Even the cows seemed to pity them. Leisen sprinted back to the camera as his actors prepared to milk one of the animals, Barbara lobbying to keep the beast under control while MacMurray tried to squirt the liquid into what looked like a thermos. No doubt it would play much funnier in close-up.

  ‘She’s not wearing a hat,’ I said. ‘I thought this was all about Barbara’s hat.’

  ‘It’s in the car,’ Edith said, exasperated. ‘Mitch changed the scene. The cow is supposed to eat Barbara’s hat. I don’t know from cows. There weren’t many in the desert where I grew up. Burros are another story. That’s how I started in this business. Dressing the poor burros that wandered into the mining camp, making them look pretty. I’ve no idea what might entice a cow. I tried tucking everything under the feather on Barbara’s hat. Lettuce, spinach. Then I substituted a corn husk cut into the shape of the feather, and the result played like a scene from Clifton’s. The cow almost consumed Barbara’s head as well. So now the chapeau shall constitute its own course.’

  ‘Hat as hors d’oeuvre.’

  ‘Exactly. Isn’t movie magic wonderful?’

  Leisen called cut. The cow wandered away. Fred MacMurray laughed. ‘She’s had about as much training as I’ve had.’ He wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his suit jacket.

  ‘Careful, Fred. I loaned you that wardrobe.’ Leisen rushed over to Barbara Stanwyck. ‘What do you think, baby, time for a break? Get you out of those heavy duds for a while?’

  ‘With this sun and all these people waiting? No, I’m fine.’ Barbara’s voice when the cameras weren’t rolling had a sharp New York bite to it that I loved. ‘Let’s keep the show on the road, if Bossie has one more in her.’

  A grip chased the cow back into position, and the crew made ready to go again. ‘Marion wanted to know if Argus had an invite to her party,’ I told Edith. ‘I said it was likely.’

  ‘Yes, but not guaranteed. Every
column has reported that she’s throwing a costume party. My fear is the blackmailer selected the party for that very reason. What better place for such an exchange than a house where everyone is in disguise?’

  ‘The host and hostess included. Argus could slip in, swipe the painting, and hightail it out with no one the wiser.’

  Bossie had some prima donna in her pedigree. With an angry moo, she trotted off toward the rest of the herd. As the crew gave chase, Leisen called for a break. Barbara made her way toward us, Edith rushing to meet her.

  ‘Mitch is right. You should take off those clothes.’

  ‘Leave me be, Jughead,’ Barbara said with forceful affection. She waved and blew me a kiss. ‘You don’t get a real one, Flushing. I’m too shiny for that.’

  Edith wouldn’t be deterred. ‘You’re wearing a wool suit, a sweater, and a fur coat in these conditions.’

  ‘Who makes Christmas pictures at Christmas? Here, I’ll take the scarf off. Everything else stays, including the galoshes. It’d take too long to strip this gear off, and once I did I’d never want to put it back on. Plus every Tom, Dick and Harry will see the damned corset I’m wearing for my back. That’s the real killer today.’

  Leisen stood before the balky bovine, imploring it to return to its mark. ‘Mitch should try whispering to Bossie with that gizmo of his,’ Barbara said. ‘See where it gets him.’

  ‘What gizmo?’ I asked.

  ‘Some kind of amplifier that spares Mitch the trouble of leaning around the camera while we’re rehearsing. He speaks into a microphone and his voice comes out by the lens.’ Barbara rolled her eyes. ‘You spend years teaching yourself to ignore the camera, then the blasted thing starts talking to you.’

  ‘That can’t be helpful.’

  ‘Certainly not in my love scenes with Fred. He’s bashful enough without Mitch whispering sweet nothings to him. How have you and Addison been, Flushing? I asked after you at my fitting and Edith told me about your father. I’m sorry for your loss.’

  I thanked her. Edith turned to me. ‘That’s why you haven’t been yourself lately. You’re still grieving.’