The walls of Travis Banton’s office were light burled wood polished to a high sheen. The man made himself at home behind a massive oak desk, plucking a cigarette from a red lacquered box. His slicked-back hair and thin mustache aimed for sophistication but only emphasized he had the flat, pie-plate eyes of a carnival huckster. “Barney Groff, head of Paramount security. Our mutual pal Roy Hansen gave me a courtesy call.”
“That’s Roy. Courteous to a fault.”
“I thought I’d sit in on your meeting with Miss Head. Make sure you get what you need. I’m sorry you came all this way to talk to an assistant and not the man himself.” His cigarette traced an arc encompassing the entire office. “We spring for all this space and he’s never here.”
“I’m sure Miss Head will be able to help.”
“Yeah. She already acts like she runs the place.” The glowing end of his cigarette pointed at me. “I see you brought your own audience.”
“This young woman suggested a connection between Ruby Carroll and Paramount Pictures. Her—”
“I know who Miss Frost is.” Groff must have received a comprehensive report from his good friend Roy, considering I hadn’t been introduced. “What I don’t know is why she’s here. What gives?”
“Do I get to tell you how to make pictures?”
Groff smiled instinctively, a perpetual smoother of the ways. “Fair enough. You must know your business as well as I know mine.”
Conversation over, Groff sat at Banton’s desk and smoked. Morrow stood before him, smiling pleasantly at a point just over Groff’s head. I passed the time picturing Carole Lombard swanning around the room in a golden gown. Then I fitted myself into the dress. Miss Lombard looked better.
When Edith Head stepped into the office, she immediately took charge. “Shall we begin, Mr. Groff? I’m curious to see what our visitors have brought.”
Groff puffed a smoke ring at the ceiling. “Carry on, Miss Head. Pretend it’s your office.”
Edith ignored his tone and approached the desk. She shifted a chrome-and-oxblood leather correspondence tray, leaving enough room for Lucky Lindy to touch down. Morrow opened the box and laid out the cape and shoes Ruby had been wearing. He saved the dress for last, taking pains to fold the fabric in order to conceal the bloodstain.
But Edith would have none of it. “May I?” When Morrow nodded, she straightened the material, blanching at the splash of red, its undeniability. She composed herself by flicking away phantom threads. “Oh, my. Yes, these are ours.”
“You’re certain?” Morrow asked. “There’s no chance of this being a copy?”
“No, Detective. I designed this gown myself. You say poor Miss Carroll was found wearing it? Then she must have stolen it somehow.”
“Where was this dress kept?” Morrow asked.
“In our storage room on the third floor.”
“Which apparently anyone had access to.” Groff’s voice was remote, as if he were at the end of a long-distance line.
“Any Wardrobe employee. We regularly need to fetch items from storage.”
Morrow interjected. “Would you have needed this gown?”
“We reuse wardrobe for publicity photographs and other films. Typically that involves remaking the costumes slightly.”
“All those pretty actresses cost a pretty penny, so we cut a few corners,” Groff said drily. “No need to draw the curtain so far back, Miss Head. You’ll give away our secrets.”
I could practically see Edith biting her tongue. “In any event, we wouldn’t have done that with this gown. It’s too distinctive, and the picture too recent.”
“The Return of Sophie Lang?” I asked.
“That’s right. I’m astonished you remembered it.”
“How could I forget it? It’s so striking, with the cape that ties underneath the dress collar. I’d never seen anything like that before.”
Edith permitted herself a small smile, which she immediately covered with her hand. “Thank you, Lillian. I was quite pleased with how it turned out.” She inspected the dress’s seams and hem. “What amazes me is Ruby didn’t have to change the length. She could have been a stand-in for Gertrude Michael.”
“Ruby had read they were both the same size,” I said.
“Our costumes customarily have tags naming the actresses who wore them. Ruby could have looked for something of Miss Michael’s knowing she could wear it without alteration.”
“Meaning she browsed our storage room like a clearance sale at Bullock’s and came out with something extra for herself,” Groff said to his buffed fingernails. “Hardly an advertisement for your department, Miss Head.”
“I’m sure you mean Mr. Banton’s department.”
Groff’s hands took in the ether currently unoccupied by Mr. Banton. “Which is, on the frequent occasions when your mentor is indisposed, your responsibility.”
“Do you remember Ruby from her time at Paramount, Miss Head?” Morrow asked. “What was your impression of her?”
“That she wouldn’t be here long. In Wardrobe, I should say.” Her eyes strayed back to the sullied dress. “We ask the girls to do whatever needs doing. Answering phones, running errands. Picking up pins off the floor, I call it. Ruby, I’m sad to say, couldn’t be bothered.”
Groff took over. “Ruby Carroll was in Paramount’s employ less than three weeks. In that time she missed four days. That was unacceptable, and she was let go.”
“Ruby was fired?” It was an odd time to feel vindicated, but I knew Ruby would never have quit.
“Yes. For absenteeism, not theft. We didn’t know about that.”
“So many girls would love a job here, Detective. There’s no point in keeping someone unreliable,” Edith said.
Groff slapped his thighs and stood up. “Anything else for Miss Head to look over?”
Before I could blurt out a single panicked word about my brooch, Morrow stepped in front of me. “Is jewelry stored with the costumes?”
“Yes. Once filming is finished we sort the accessories by type and historical period so we can access them for future productions. Was Ruby wearing jewelry as well?”
Morrow reached inside his jacket for the envelope. Edith produced a square of felt to lay on the desk. As Morrow spread out the jewelry, Edith raised a dismayed eyebrow. “Ruby was wearing all this with the gown?”
“Yes. Are they from the studio?”
“I can’t say for certain. I can guarantee they weren’t worn in the Sophie Lang film. The gown was designed to make its own statement. The earrings are a touch muted while the necklace and ring strike me as, perhaps, excessive.”
“What about that red piece?” I waved what I hoped was a seemingly indifferent hand over my brooch.
“When we found it, it was pinned to this.” Morrow took the clutch from the box and showed it to Edith.
“Clever. Ruby added charm to an inexpensive bag and hid a stain as well. If only she’d shown such ingenuity when she was here.”
“Do you recognize that piece?” Morrow asked.
“No. It’s not even the correct time period for this costume. Sophie Lang is a modern heroine. This brooch is…” She examined the clasp. “I’d say Victorian. Last century, certainly. It is lovely in its way, though, isn’t it?”
I had to restrain myself from hugging her.
Morrow noticed my elated look. “The very argument Miss Frost made.”
“It’s obvious Lillian has an eye for these things.”
Groff rapped Banton’s desk with his knuckles. “So the Alley Angel shuffled her coil off while wearing clothes swiped from us. An unfortunate coincidence we can keep amongst friends, I think. There’s no cause to drag Paramount into this.”
“Your concern for your former employees is touching,” Morrow said.
“I’m known for my tender heart. Just trying to keep Mr. Zukor’s machine well oiled is all. Now if you folks don’t have any more business related to the studio, maybe we can let Miss Head get back to work.�
�
The lady herself spoke up. “I’ll show our guests out, Mr. Groff. Thank you for coming.”
“We’ll have to have a talk about security around here with Mr. Richardson. Someday when Travis sees fit to roll in.” He nodded at Morrow and didn’t acknowledge me at all as he sauntered out.
Edith poured the necklace back into the envelope. “I’ll check our jewelry collection to see if anything has been stolen.”
“Jewelry already has been stolen. Ruby took that brooch from me. It was my mother’s.”
“Your mother’s brooch.” Edith cradled it in her hand. “You poor dear.”
“I’m hoping to get it back someday,” I said.
“Someday?”
“There are procedures for Miss Frost to reclaim her property,” Morrow said.
“It should only take twenty years.”
“Miss Frost.” Morrow gave me a severe look.
Edith repacked the evidence box and laid the jewelry envelope on top. She walked us into the reception area. “I’ll also organize a search to see if other costumes are missing, particularly those worn by Gertrude Michael. Shall we coordinate our efforts, Detective?”
While they made plans, I wandered back into Travis Banton’s salon. Bereft of activity, it was as hushed as a chapel. I stepped onto the pedestal where Gracie Allen had stood and gave myself the once-over. My lucky navy blue suit, the one I’d been wearing when I met Ruby, had seen better days. As for what lay under the clothes, my final assessment: tall, slim, somewhat underendowed in the curves department.
“You’re in rare company,” Edith said from behind me. “Only the biggest names use this room. I fit Mae West for She Done Him Wrong on that very spot.”
“I loved that movie. My aunt Joyce and the rest of the Rosary Society didn’t, but I did.”
“Miss West certainly is forthright. It’s why she’s a joy to work with. Did you know she has two versions of each costume made? One for standing and another a bit looser she can sit down in. That’s the secret to her elegance. Never a wrinkle.”
“I wish I could take advantage of that trick.”
“Who wouldn’t?” Edith lowered her voice. “I’m sorry you had to hear me speak ill of your friend, Lillian. And for your loss.”
“You didn’t say anything that surprised me. And I’m not sure what the detective told you, but Ruby and I weren’t close anymore. I, I haven’t really suffered a loss.”
“Yes, you have.” She peered up at me, her eyes holding me in place. “A rather difficult one, because there was unfinished business between the two of you. Much left unsaid.”
She retreated a step, looking almost comically prim. “Do you know what would flatter you? Off with that jacket and raise your arms a bit.” She laid my jacket on a sofa, untucked my blouse from the high-waisted skirt and pinched the fabric above my hips. “If you let the blouse or sweater, a lightweight sweater only mind you, drape over your waist and add a belt, you’ll show off your figure to better advantage.”
I checked the mirror. I was still no Mae West, but my curves did appear more bountiful.
“Remember, there’s no reason not to look your best at all times.”
“That’s what got Ruby into trouble.”
“True. I’ll amend my point. Always look your best up to the limits of larceny. Words to live by.”
6
MRS. LINDROS’S BOARDINGHOUSE was a rambling Victorian pile on a Hollywood side street. Divided into apartments after the ’29 crash then subdivided three years later, its exterior had been repainted piecemeal using whatever color was on sale at Lundigan’s. The crazy quilt of garish and institutional shades put the structure somewhere between landmark and eyesore. And it was where, for six pleasant months and two chilly weeks, I’d lived with Ruby.
I was in no mood to spend the evening alone staring at the walls of my apartment. Taking the long approach to Mrs. Lindros’s allowed me to avoid the alley where Ruby had met her fate—and to confirm my worst suspicions. Cars cluttered the block. Slouching men smoked cigarettes down to nubs while hawkeyeing the front door. The fraternity of the press out in force now that Ruby had been identified as the Alley Angel.
I veered to the parallel street, having no interest in being the buzzards’ latest serving of carrion. A shortcut across the Gustafsons’ neighboring property would let me slip to the house unnoticed.
Or so I thought until I spotted the sleek roadster in the drive, midnight blue against a wall of dingy lime. A figure reclined behind the wheel, the brim of his Panama hat resting on a pair of sunglasses. His hand hung over the car’s door as if awaiting the return of a faithful hound. I inched past quietly, glancing at the man’s hand. The dangling digits were freshly manicured. But the knuckles were swollen and scarred, as if he’d thrown a punch or two in the not-so-distant past.
“Sneaking in late or early, sweetheart?”
The man roused himself minimally, nudging the hat’s brim with a finger. I wasn’t worth sitting all the way up for. His honeyed voice was charged with insinuation. “I’d hate to see you land in trouble with Mother.”
“Just avoiding the reporters. Hello, Laurence. I haven’t seen you since the wedding.”
Laurence Minot perked up, lowering the sunglasses enough for me to see additional cuts and bruises. A few scrapes near his temple, a near-miss black eye he sported like the wrong color necktie. Even without the battle scars, his face had the charismatic ugliness of a bulldog’s. “Yes, of course. How have you been?” The space he left for my name, which he clearly couldn’t remember, was large enough to drive his car through.
Deliverance came in the person of his wife, Lodestar Pictures’ newest ingénue Diana Galway. When she’d done her time with us at the boardinghouse she’d been plain old Diane O’Roarke. At least they’d kept her Irish. “Lillian! You’ve come to pay your respects, too.”
“Yes, and to see how everyone is holding up.” Diana cantered toward me on high heels, arms wide. What hardhearted soul could not respond in kind? Diana then stopped short, forcing me to cover the last few inches on my own. A little trick ensuring she was the one embraced. As usual, I fell for it.
“You look great,” I said in blatant understatement. Always a beauty, Diana had spent time in dry dock getting the studio overhaul since signing her contract. Once thick eyebrows now perfectly shaped, brown hair turned a glossy chestnut and, if I wasn’t mistaken, a well-padded brassiere under her printed crepe de chine frock. Lodestar had refurbished the SS Galway, cracked a bottle of champagne over her bow, and put her out to exotic ports of call.
“I’m a mess. The instant I heard about Ruby I had Laurence run me over from the lot.” She turned to the chastened man sitting ramrod straight behind the wheel, sunglasses still in place.
“Yes, dear. Lillian and I were catching up.” Laurence spoke with a borrowed aristocratic accent, part of the worldly image he’d constructed for himself; word was at birth, his name was spelled with a homely “W.” He’d started as a theater director with a flair for stagecraft. Now he was Lodestar’s master of the middling musical with titles like Larks A’Plenty and Pioneer Panic to his credit. More importantly, he was Diana’s husband of less than a year. I’d met him at their wedding, a gin-soaked shindig at which I had obviously made no impression. Ruby and I, along with some other girls from Diana’s soon-to-be-forgotten past, had been corralled at a back table in a drafty hotel restaurant for the reception, where we ran down the rumors on the groom. Drinker? Heavy. Womanizer? Incorrigible. I wondered if we should have added brawler to his tally of vices.
“It’s such a shock,” Diana said. “Ruby and I were to have lunch this week.”
“Ruby so enjoyed your lunches.” Even more, she relished parroting Diana’s litany of complaints about her new life in luxury’s lap. I hated Ruby for running down her alleged friend in this way, and I hated myself more for hanging on her every word when she did. At least Ruby got a free meal out of it.
“Perhaps you and I should
get together, Lillian. I’d like that. And with Ruby gone…” I mustered a yes or three, and we exchanged telephone numbers. With an air kiss and a nod from Laurence, the Minots were off.
I found Mrs. Lindros muttering over what remained of her zinnias, the press hordes having laid waste to her flower beds. She wrapped her meaty arms around me while firing a black gaze at the remaining reporters. “Jackals,” she said grimly, then pushed me toward the house.
The familiar chintz curtains and tattered sofa greeted me in the parlor, the upright piano waiting contentedly in the corner. My stay at Mrs. Lindros’s ended badly, but I had fond memories of the place as well.
“Hello, stranger.” Kay Dambach strolled into the room. Dimples showing off plump cheeks, dark curls bouncing. She wiped her hands on her apron before giving me a hug. “You’ve heard the news. Did you and Ruby ever make up?”
I finessed the answer. “We had lunch a few weeks ago.”
“Good. I’m glad. You hungry? I just made a coffee cake.” I took off like Floyd Bennett and beat her to the kitchen.
Kay was a marvelous cook, helping Mrs. Lindros for a break on her rent. Her ambition was to become a writer, and she labored in obscurity as a gal Friday at Modern Movie magazine while awaiting her chance to prove she was the next Dorothy Parker. Dottie, I would wager, could not work Kay’s magic with streusel. I inhaled the cake and chased it with a cup of coffee.
“I saw Diana on my way in,” I said.
“The new and improved model. Lodestar does good work. She still can’t sing, though.”
“What gives with Laurence? Looked like he’d stepped in the ring with Jimmy Braddock.”
Kay pulled the plate of cake away from me so she’d have my full attention. “Specifics, if you please.” She detected a potential story. I gave her the one of my eventful day instead.
“Paramount sent over photos of Edith Head,” she said. “They want us to do a story on her. Girl designer to the stars or some such.”
“From what I saw she practically runs the place.”
Design for Dying Page 4
