Design for Dying

by Renee Patrick

  “You look good,” I told her with great reluctance. “If I had hair that color I never would have changed it.”

  “That platinum look’s finished now that Jean Harlow’s dead. I’d hate to remind anyone of Baby. What if I run into William Powell?”

  “If you were going to compliment my looks in return, this would be the time.”

  “Come on, mermaid. You’re always well turned out. Unlike the rest of us, you don’t need constant reassurance about it.”

  “Shows what you know. So what have you been up to?”

  “Whatever keeps the wolf from the door. I hired on at Paramount, did you hear?”

  I sipped my scalding, just-arrived tea to buy myself a moment. “You don’t say.”

  “Didn’t your famous uncle Donny lift a brush there?”

  “Danny. I’m surprised the girls never mentioned that to me.” In truth, I could readily understand it. The other boarders at Mrs. Lindros’s house knew how I’d react to the news, well aware I longed to present myself at the studio’s Bronson Gate and be clutched to Paramount’s breast as a member of the extended family. I wasn’t necessarily jealous of Ruby when it came to Tommy Carpa, but I was positively green-eyed now. “How’d you wind up there?”

  “Friend of a friend. It’s all who you know. One call and I was in Wardrobe, helping the stars into their gowns. Of course, I’m not there anymore.”

  “You were fired from Paramount?”

  “Hardly, mermaid. I quit. The grind got in the way of my real work. Clomping around behind some studio stooge’s ‘discovery’ who can’t keep time.” Ruby sighed grandly. “Lately I’ve been giving some thought to the theater. The stage is where real acting is done.”

  “You were born to play Lady Macbeth.”

  “Don’t be catty. I’ve had loads of time to reflect on my career since I gave Tommy the heave-ho.”

  I perked up. “You did? Why?”

  “Everything you ever said about him turned out to be true. In spades. He’s a louse and a bum. A four-flusher and a terrible dancer.” Ruby pressed her lips bloodless. “You warned me about him and I didn’t listen. Could have spared myself a boatload of heartache if I’d paid attention to my one true friend.”

  For the next half hour, as Ruby devoured ham and eggs to the accompaniment of my growling stomach, she brought me up to speed on the doings among Mrs. Lindros’s current class and alumni. With the last of the yolk soaked up, she pushed away her plate. Still packing away the chow and never gaining a pound. “This is some store,” she said.

  “Thanks. I worked hard on it.”

  “Doesn’t that designer Irene have a boutique here?”

  “No. She’s at Bullock’s on Wilshire.”

  “Irene does all of Claudette Colbert’s clothes. I saw her once, at a party Tommy took me to. Claudette. She was so tiny and beautiful I just wanted to claw her face and throw myself in front of a bus.” From Ruby there could be no higher praise. She paused. I felt the calculation in it. “There’s some choice stuff here. What’s the policy like?”

  “The policy?”

  “You know. On returns.”

  She winked, and I knew I was in trouble.

  “It’s fairly strict. You need a receipt. Ideally witnessed by a priest.”

  “Too bad. I don’t have any receipts handy. Or priests, for that matter.” She leaned across the table. “Would they notice if something had been borrowed and brought back in near-mint condition?”

  She wanted me to steal clothes. For her.

  My face burned. Instinct told me to storm away from the table, to milk the moment for every drop of drama. Instead I cocked my head and gazed out the window as if contemplating her suggestion.

  “It might be possible. We do carry a lot of lovely merchandise here. But you know what I’ve never seen is anything like that brooch I used to have. The one that went missing. I’ve looked for a replacement, but I can’t find one.”

  Ruby was a better actress than I’d given her credit for, because what she said next sounded completely natural. “That’s a shame. It’s funny, I was thinking about that brooch the other day. Remember Elizabeth, that Spanish-looking girl who used to sit in our room with us sometimes? Maybe she took it. She ditched on her last bill and left Mrs. Lindros holding the bag. And I mean literally. Her suitcase is in the basement. I could go through it if you want, see if the brooch is there.”

  “You’d do that?”

  “Absolutely. I’ll check that bag and a few other spots you might have missed. If I find anything, I’ll bring it to our next lunch. Maybe by then you’ll have sized up the store detectives.”

  I smiled. “Won’t that be a fun afternoon.”

  We said our good-byes and I bustled to the stockroom to feast on my leftovers. They tasted divine, not least because Ruby hadn’t paid for them.

  * * *

  MORROW LISTENED WITHOUT rolling his eyes once. I took that as a good sign. Then Hansen snorted. “So you did steal this dress for Ruby.”

  “I didn’t steal anything. I wanted Ruby to think I would, so she’d return my mother’s brooch. But she didn’t come back after that. I never saw or spoke to Ruby again.”

  “If you didn’t take anything, why keep the lunch a secret?”

  “I don’t want to jeopardize my job at Tremayne’s. If Mr. Valentine found out I’d even pretended to think about stealing, he’d replace me in a minute. I felt guilty enough as it was.”

  “You felt guilty for not stealing?” Hansen looked like he’d pulled a muscle in his head.

  “The sisters at St. Mary’s are very thorough,” I said.

  Morrow smiled. “A Catholic girl. I should have known.”

  “The nuns took care of whatever master criminal instincts I may have possessed,” I said, and that’s when it hit me. I almost yelped.

  I pointed at the evidence box. “Is there a wrap hiding in there? More tulle and fur?”

  Morrow lifted a sheer cape with a fur trim. The garment looked insubstantial in his hands. “That’s an uncommonly good guess,” he said.

  “I knew that outfit looked familiar.”

  “Then you did see Ruby wearing it.”

  “No. Someone else. Gertrude Michael, on screen at the Rivoli in New York.”

  Hansen stirred. “In what picture?”

  “The Return of Sophie Lang.”

  “Right. The wife liked that one.” He turned to Morrow. “It’s about this dame who’s a jewel thief. There was another one out a few weeks ago, Sophie Lang Goes West. The wife didn’t care for it as much.”

  “I saw that one, too. Ruby and I talked about the Sophie Lang movies all the time. She read in a fan magazine that she and Gertrude Michael were the same size.”

  “Hold the phone,” Morrow said. “You’re suggesting this is the dress some actress wore in a movie? Maybe it just looks like it. Don’t stores do that? ‘Wear the same styles as the stars,’ all that bunk?” He waved his hand over the clothes, dismissing them.

  “First, it’s not only the dress. The entire outfit was in the movie. Second, it’s too elaborate to be mass-produced. I’d need a lady’s maid, a set of instructions, and a running start to put it on. Third, the fabric on a look-alike would be cheaper. I’m pretty sure that fur trim is real. Ruby didn’t pick that up downtown on Dollar Day. That’s a costume from a movie.”

  “And how would Ruby get her hands on it?”

  “Ruby worked at Paramount for a while. In Wardrobe. If Paramount makes the Sophie Lang movies…”

  Morrow eyed me, then Hansen. Then, saints be praised, he pulled his notepad from his jacket. “What’s that fella’s name, handles security over there?”

  “Barney Groff,” Hansen said.

  “Pal of yours, right?”

  “We have a professional acquaintanceship.”

  “That occasionally meets over a card table. Okay, Miss Frost, we’ll ask about Ruby’s stint at the studio.”

  “Didn’t you say something about jewelry? I migh
t recognize that from the movie, too.” Intriguing as Ruby’s possible Paramount pilferage was, I was more concerned with a smaller-scaled theft.

  Morrow reached back into the box and extracted a large policy envelope. He slid the contents onto the table, where they glittered against the scarred wood.

  The onyx drop earrings I’d seen before. I couldn’t say the same for the allegedly gold necklace set with large squares of purported topaz, each gaudy slab gleaming like a pat of butter in a hot skillet. The cocktail ring was also new, a faux sapphire encircled by equally bogus diamonds, all of them sparkling desperately. The pieces didn’t work together much less complement the Sophie Lang gown. Accessories had always been Ruby’s fashion Achilles’ heel. Less is more, mermaid? What does that mean?

  More importantly, there was no sign of my brooch.

  “There’s nothing else?”

  “Just her purse.” Morrow turned the box over and a white silk moiré clutch landed on the table.

  With a soft metallic clank.

  I didn’t think. I reached for the purse and flipped it over. My brooch was pinned to the flap, a splash of red against the pale fabric.

  “Don’t touch the evidence,” Morrow said sharply.

  “But that’s my brooch.” I pointed at it.

  Hansen picked up the bag. “Now why should we believe that?”

  “Because it’s the truth.”

  He attempted to unpin the brooch from the bag. The sight of his fingers clawing at it made my throat close. I wheeled toward Morrow. “I told you. She took it from me.”

  “Can you prove it’s yours?”

  “Prove it? I never wore it. I didn’t want to lose it.”

  Hansen had removed the brooch and held it closer to the anemic light. Which revealed more red on the white purse. A constellation of wine drops.

  My most prized possession, used to hide a stain. Damn you, Ruby. How could you?

  Appearances count, mermaid. Never let yourself be seen at less than your best.

  “I’m sorry,” Morrow said. “For all we know the jewelry was taken from Paramount, too.”

  “But the brooch wasn’t. It’s mine.” I was tempted to snatch the pin from Hansen’s grubby fist and make a break for the door. Instead I slammed my palm on the table. It didn’t sound as loud as I’d hoped and stung more than I’d expected, but it got their attention.

  “The pieces themselves are proof. Earrings in the moderne style. And cocktail rings are all the rage now. But a brooch set with garnets? Those went out with hoop skirts. That pin is practically Victorian. That’s because it’s a family heirloom. My family heirloom.”

  “When it’s no longer needed as evidence,” Morrow said, “there’s a procedure for you to claim it.”

  “Assuming the family don’t take it first,” Hansen added.

  “Ruby’s family?”

  “They’re on their way from Ohio,” Morrow said.

  “The brooch doesn’t belong to them. And Paramount will know it’s not from their wardrobe department.”

  “I’ll let you know what we find out. You have my word.”

  “Or you could take me with you to the studio.”

  Morrow’s eyes twitched, one after the other like a railroad crossing signal. “It’s been a long day, Miss Frost. Wouldn’t you rather get home?”

  “Not if I can be there when Paramount Pictures tells you that brooch is not their property.”

  “I still won’t be able to give it to you.”

  “I don’t care. I’ll know it’s one step closer to being mine again.”

  “Miss Frost. I understand how you feel—”

  “Do you? Because unless you had the only thing your mother left you stolen, I don’t think you do.” Tears welled up. I steadfastly ignored them. “Please, Detective.”

  I sensed Morrow’s resolve cracking. He’d had a long day, too.

  “You’re not giving weight to this malarkey?” Hansen palmed his three-o’clock shadow. “C’mon, Gene. Enough is enough.”

  Frantic, I blurted out, “Don’t you want to question Gertrude Michael?”

  “I hear she’s a lush.” Hansen turned to his partner. “If I start blubbering, will I get whatever I want from you? The dress was stolen from Tremayne’s, not Paramount. I guarantee it. Double or nothing if you walk in with this girl and her cockamamie story, Barney Groff laughs you off the lot.”

  I was considering the consequences of telling a detective to go wash his neck when Morrow spoke.

  “I’ll phone your pal Groff. You get to work on turning up Tommy Carpa.” He tipped his hat onto his head. “Let’s go, Miss Frost. Before I change my mind.”

  5

  THE TINGLE BEGAN as we tooled within view of the wrought-iron Bronson Gate. It thrummed in my every nerve once we were on the Paramount lot itself. Stepping out of Detective Morrow’s car, I couldn’t shake the wholly undeserved feeling that I was home. It seemed perfectly normal to spy a Marie Antoinette with a skyscraper wig loitering outside a building branded WARDROBE DEPT. while her ladies-in-waiting finished their smokes. Her Highness winked at Morrow as he held the door for me.

  A sparrow of a receptionist directed us toward a small office, its walls rainbowed with sketches and fabric swatches. Twin drafting tables faced each other in the room’s center. Perched before one of them was a pert brunette grimacing at her handiwork.

  “Good afternoon. We’re looking for…” Morrow consulted his notebook. “Edith Head?”

  “Not me. I’m Adele Balkan.” Happy to be distracted from whatever was vexing her, she hopped off her stool. “Are you with the police? Edith’s doing a fitting and asked me to take you in.”

  We followed her down a lengthy hall to a door marked TRAVIS BANTON. Beyond it lay a well-appointed outer office. Its sole occupant was a secretary blessed with striking silver hair held in place by matching antique barrettes. Her skin had the continental glow that came from a steady diet of fresh vegetables and kept secrets. She nodded as Adele led us to one of two doors.

  The salon felt equal parts Park Avenue club and Hollywood hideaway, making it the most perfect room in the world. Walls painted soothing terra-cotta shades, French baroque furniture. Past the Japanese screen depicting a grove of cherry trees, though, it became apparent the tranquility was merely decorative; the fitting area, dominated by an illuminated three-panel mirror, pulsed with activity. A woman stood on a low pedestal, her back to us, head down. A seamstress knelt at her feet as if in supplication while a second crouched nearby, pincushion at the ready. A photographer circled the scene backward, possessed of complete faith that no obstacle would bestrew his path.

  All this frenzy over a white petticoated dress that seemed downright dowdy.

  The action was clearly being staged for the benefit of one woman. She wore a shirtwaist dress the color of fresh buttermilk, a pattern of pale green leaves scattered across the fabric. Her petite frame should have been overwhelmed by the print but something about her bearing balanced it perfectly. Before Adele could signal her, the woman was striding toward us. Her dark hair was cut into a bob, sharp bangs in a ruler-straight line above eyes that moved past lively to ferocious. Thick, heavy-rimmed glasses only magnified their intensity as they took in the evidence box in Morrow’s hands. As her gaze swept over me I had the sense of my measure being taken, both ruthlessly and accurately. I straightened my spine, and could have sworn the woman nodded in approval.

  “You must be Detective Morrow. I’m Edith Head.”

  Morrow shook her outstretched hand and introduced me. Edith looked me up and down—mostly up, as I had a good six inches on her. The eye-of-the-storm stillness she radiated was daunting. “The young lady with the memory for fashion. A pleasure.”

  At that instant, the photographer snapped a picture. He was half turned in our direction, the explosion of light from the flashbulb catching me off guard. As I blinked away stars Edith glared at the shutterbug, his hands aloft in apology. The woman in crinolines atop the pedestal peek
ed over her shoulder at us. One hazy gander at her face was all I needed. “That’s Gracie Allen,” I said gracelessly in response to Edith’s greeting.

  “Indeed it is. Would you care to say hello? When I mentioned you’d be arriving, Miss Allen said she’d never met a real detective before.”

  Edith nodded at the two seamstresses. “Thank you, Martha, Inez.” The photographer was already slinking out of the room. Adele trailed them out and closed the salon’s door, leaving us mere feet from Gracie Allen, studying herself in the mirror with a doubtful expression.

  “What do you think, Gracie? Will the new hem keep it from sweeping up the chalk dust?”

  “The scene’s set in a schoolroom,” Gracie explained in that familiar voice like the tinkling of bells. “I’m some kind of a student, and not a good one. Aren’t you in stitches? Edie here has been for ages. I play my own ancestor. Who was apparently a milkmaid.” She put her hand on the designer’s shoulder. “No offense, Edith. It’s charming.”

  “As charming as the year 1738 will allow.”

  “I think you look lovely,” I said.

  “Aren’t you sweet. Or possibly blind. Either way, you’re a dear.”

  The salon’s door opened, admitting a man in a black tailored suit who carried himself like someone entitled to open any door he encountered. Gracie also spotted him. “More guests? I couldn’t have an audience for that pink dress I wear in the love scene?”

  Edith excused herself to greet the newcomer, leaving us with Gracie’s full attention. “I’m going to need to see a badge, Officer.”

  “Detective. Yes, ma’am.” Morrow was still fumbling for his identification when Edith returned.

  “Travis Banton, our lead designer, isn’t using his office today. Why don’t you wait there while Miss Allen and I finish?” Morrow managed to flash his shield at the actress. She clapped her hands with delight.

  The gent in the sepulchral suit preceded us into the outer office, breezing past the secretary and stepping through the suite’s other door. Morrow, a faint smile on his lips, drifted after him. I played when-in-Rome and went along for the ride.