Design for Dying

by Renee Patrick

“Somebody has to. Travis Banton’s not around enough. The studio’s been loaning him out a lot lately. You know what that means.” Kay pantomimed taking a slug from a bottle. “Banton’s a genius. But what good’s a genius if he’s never at his drafting table? Word is he’s on his way out. Paramount won’t renew his contract. And when he goes, Edith goes.”

  I pressed my fork into the last of the crumbs on my plate. “That’s a pity. I liked Edith. She gave me a personal wardrobe consultation. A tip, anyway.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’m not telling until I experiment and see if anyone notices. Any chance of a second piece of cake?”

  “After you stop putting off what you came here for.”

  Kay knew me too well. “Is Vi around?”

  “In her room,” Kay said. “She’s been up there a lot since Ruby was killed. You know how close those two had gotten. Get her to come down. The cake should still be here.”

  * * *

  I FELT THE tug on the second-story landing. My old floor. I walked to the door of the room I’d shared with Ruby. Knocking on it felt supremely odd. I was used to simply throwing it wide.

  There was no answer. I stepped inside.

  Ruby apparently hadn’t had a roommate when she died. The cramped space was filled with only her clutter. A dressing gown tossed over a chair, an overflowing ashtray. The closet was half full of her clothes, a familiar assortment of blouses, day dresses and skirts plus a pair of slacks for around the house. Ruby, proud of her dancer’s legs, didn’t care for women’s trousers. You know why Garbo wears them, don’t you? To hide those gunboats below her ankles.

  I sat on my old bed. How many nights had Ruby and I lain here in the dark, sharing stories, tales of Uncle Danny, secret codes Ruby had invented during her childhood? On the other side of the wall behind me was the lemon tree in the garden, its fragrance filling the room. Ruby had always referred to it as hers.

  “You can’t even see it from in here,” I’d complain. “The window’s in the wrong place.”

  “Or the tree is. Doesn’t matter, mermaid. I know it’s out there, like the glorious future that’s waiting for me. You, too.” I didn’t mind being an afterthought. It was her fantasy.

  I rested my head on the pillow and sought comfort in the pattern of water stains on the ceiling, feeling years older than the girl who had done the same thing months before.

  * * *

  PUTTING TINY AND delicate Violet Webb in the attic room that once sheltered two household maids was akin to placing an angel atop a Christmas tree. Vi had come to Hollywood by way of Seattle, where she’d played Peter Pan in a musical production written by her vocal coach. I pegged her as more the Tinker Bell type, all golden hair and faraway eyes.

  A scratchy baritone rendition of “Stardust” greeted me at the summit of the narrow stairs. Vi, always ready to belt out a tune, was letting others sing for her. She opened the door to my knock, blinked as if waking from a dream, then held me tight.

  “I was going to call you,” she said.

  “Now you don’t have to. See? I saved you a nickel.”

  The song ended and Vi turned off the phonograph. She wiped her eyes. “I was just thinking about that day Ruby called you mermaid and it gave me the idea we should go to the beach.”

  “You know what I remember about that day? The handsome fellow who followed you around all afternoon.”

  “Edward! He wore me out with his stories. At least we got something from him.” She went to her bureau and her face fell anew.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “That picture Edward took of the three of us at the beach. I forgot I gave it to a policeman. He stopped me outside and said he needed a picture of Ruby. It was the only one I had.” She stared mournfully at the spot where the photograph had been, framed by scraps of yellowing tape.

  “How did Ruby seem lately?”

  “Strange. One day last month we were planning to go to Warners for a call. When it was time to leave, she was in the parlor reading a magazine, not even dressed! She wasn’t going, said she was beyond that. Can you imagine? Beyond Warner Brothers?” Her eyes widened in cartoonish amazement. “A few days later I found her in the garden staring at Mrs. Lindros’s roses. I could see she’d been crying, but she wouldn’t say why.”

  “Crying? I never once saw Ruby cry.”

  “It wasn’t in her nature. She was so stubborn. ‘I’m not stopping until everyone knows my name.’” Vi’s voice couldn’t do justice to Ruby’s timbre, but she nailed the intensity. More impressively she captured some of Ruby’s spirit in the set of her shoulders, the casual toss of her head. “I wish I could be like that and not get down in the dumps when things don’t pan out. Which is a lot. Maybe I should be like you and get a regular job.”

  “You forget that as an actress I’m a terrific salesgirl. You’re too talented to give up. And you’re still pulling down good money at the Midnight Room.” Ruby had strong-armed Tommy Carpa into giving Vi a cocktail waitress spot at his club back when she and Tommy were still an item. “How’s your boss?”

  “Tommy took the news about Ruby real bad. After she threw him over he made like he didn’t care and had forgotten all about her. But every couple of nights he’d track me down on the floor and ask what she was up to. ‘How’s Ruby? She seeing anybody?’”

  “Did Ruby ask about Tommy?”

  “Not as much as Tommy asked after her, but sometimes. It got confusing, like I was carrying messages they weren’t actually sending. I’m not Western Union.”

  “The detectives thought it was odd nobody had mentioned Tommy’s name.”

  “Why would anybody? Tommy and Ruby hadn’t been going together for months.”

  “He was still pining for her. You’re not a little suspicious?”

  “Of Tommy? Everybody thinks he’s some kind of tough guy. A gangster. But it’s not true.”

  Right, I thought. And the cops call him Tommy the Shark because he was born with too many teeth.

  Vi’s fingers worried a tissue. “You told the detectives about Tommy, then?”

  “They’re interested in anyone who knew Ruby.”

  “They should talk to her new friends while they’re at it.”

  “What new friends?”

  “Armando something or other. And Natalie. Ruby said he was rolling in it and Natalie was the most elegant lady she’d ever seen.”

  “Did you tell Detective Morrow about them?”

  “I told one of the detectives everything I could remember. Which wasn’t much. Ruby never even mentioned their last names. But she was seeing a lot of them lately.”

  I could tell Vi was tired of talking about Ruby, so I babbled about work, my trip to Paramount and my subsequent encounter with Edith Head. I pitched hard for her to come have cake with me and Kay.

  “Maybe later.”

  I kissed the crown of her head. As I shut the door the phonograph started up again. “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes” drifted down the stairs behind me as my mind turned over the question I couldn’t bring myself to put to Vi: Did Ruby ever mention me?

  * * *

  “VI JUST NEEDS time,” Kay said as I demolished a second piece of cake. “It can’t help seeing Tommy every night. You know she secretly loved being caught in the middle of their twisted little romance.”

  “Tell me, Scoop, what do you hear about these new flush friends of Ruby’s?”

  “Not a thing. I got tired of Ruby, flitting around like she was already a movie star. I paid no mind to her stories even when Vi repeated them. What friends are these?”

  “Vi mentioned Armando and Natalie. He’s rich, she’s beautiful, the three of them are the best of pals. It could be Ruby stole that gown from Paramount so she could take a spin in their social circle.”

  Kay’s brow furrowed as her fearsome brain set to work. “I doubt they’re movie people. I’d recognize the names. Armando sounds south of the border. There are so many South Americans around with pesos to spare. Tell you what,
I’ll ask around the Modern Movie office, thumb through the clippings.”

  “Great. Anything you find I can pass on to the detectives.”

  “The good-looking one, I hope.”

  “I hadn’t noticed either one, to be honest.”

  “Really?” Kay fanned herself. “Because one of them sent me. Quite a specimen, that Detective Hansen.”

  “Hansen?” I sprayed Kay with her own coffee cake. “Have you gone goofy? Morrow’s the handsome one. As well as smarter and better mannered.”

  “So you did notice him, to be honest. No shame in admitting it. And maybe he noticed you, seeing as he let you tag along to Paramount. I’d better turn up something on Armando and Natalie so you have a reason to talk to Detective Morrow again.”

  “Enough with the matchmaking.”

  “Somebody’s got to look out for you. You’re too busy looking out for everyone else. Stop eyeing the cake. You’ve had enough for one night.”

  “Fine. I’ll be back first thing in the morning.”

  * * *

  DINNER WAS AN apple, penance for my double dose of Kay’s handiwork. Then I made my way to my own personal matchbox. There wasn’t much to my flat but what there was was all mine, from the drab white walls to the blue coverlet on the bed. A breeze nuzzled the lace curtains as I changed into my nightgown and robe. I sank into the only decent piece of furniture, an overstuffed armchair where I could read or, more frequently, nap.

  Through drooping eyelids I glimpsed my lucky navy suit, sagging over the settee where I’d left it. It had served me in good stead for too many months to deserve such treatment. Visions of Edith Head’s reproving face spurred me to my feet.

  As I draped the jacket on a hanger, something shifted in one of the pockets. I knew what was in my hand before I opened it. I recognized the object’s shape, its warmth against my skin. I smelled lavender on the air.

  My mother’s brooch.

  For an instant I felt light-headed, fearing I’d slipped into a fugue state at Paramount and stolen my property back.

  Then my mind flashed on Edith asking for the jacket, carefully laying it on the couch in Banton’s salon. She must have taken that opportunity to drop the brooch into my pocket.

  Now I had an assignment for tomorrow. I had to thank Edith, as if words would be sufficient to acknowledge what she’d done.

  But first to let my uncle Danny know I’d at long last made the pilgrimage to Paramount’s new home. I fixed myself a cup of tea and dashed off a letter, the brooch gleaming on my pink chenille robe.

  November 7, 1937

  Los Angeles Register

  LORNA WHITCOMB’S EYES ON HOLLYWOOD

  … Constance Bennett told pals she’d figured out what her husband Marquis Henri de la Falaise was planning to gift her for her birthday. Turns out it wasn’t the sparkling stones she’d predicted, but two of the cutest French poodles in town. Hope the lovely Constance doesn’t try wearing them to the premiere of her next film!… The blond beauty beaming at the beach on page one of this very paper turns out to be an aspiring actress struck down too soon. Hollywood hopeful Ruby Carroll had scored several small dancing parts and even worked at Paramount for that genius of glamour Travis Banton and his stern wardrobe mistress Edith Head. But poor Ruby lost her step amid the traps and snares of moviedom. No doubt several of our silver screen sirens are contemplating her fresh face this morning and whispering “There but for the whim of Dame Fortune go I” … Some wags are wondering if those fire engines Fox amassed for the filming of In Old Chicago could be used next summer to cool off sure-to-be overheated Los Angeles residents. What say you, Mr. Zanuck?

  7

  TIME TO TEST Edith Head’s advice. I let my tan sweater hang over the matching knit skirt, cinching it with a narrow belt. In my own biased opinion, I looked pretty good. But my ego demanded unsolicited compliments. Any more than the usual number—zero—and I’d declare victory.

  The early bird may catch the worm, but she can forget about finding a seat on the streetcar. The man in front of me couldn’t be bothered to rise and let a lady take the weight off. He was lost in the Register’s morning edition. Glancing down, I found myself staring into Ruby’s eyes.

  ALLEY ANGEL IDENTIFIED, the headline blared. RUBY CARROLL WAS HOLLYWOOD HOPEFUL. She’d finally made the front page.

  Which disappeared when the man folded his paper to get at the boxing column. Two blocks later he started for the exit.

  “Pardon me,” I said. “Are you done with that paper?”

  “I could be, for a smile.”

  Despite the ungodly hour I gave him his money’s worth, teeth included at no extra charge.

  “Take it and maybe I’ll see you again sometime.” He winked, which I credited to Edith’s fashion tip.

  Snagging his seat I opened the paper for a good look at the page one photo. Ruby knelt on a towel at the beach in a halter-top bathing suit, blond hair blowing away from her freshly scrubbed face. She looked like an advertisement for California health and beauty.

  I recognized Ruby’s swimsuit—the salesgirl had called it poppy, Ruby insisted it was orange—and the towel, shanghaied from Mrs. Lindros’s linen closet. I also knew the girl on Ruby’s left, though the only part of her remaining in the cropped photograph was her knee. It was Vi.

  Making the hand on the towel to Ruby’s right mine.

  Poor, trusting Vi. She thought she’d given the photo of our beach jaunt to a detective, but it had been a reporter with a slick line.

  Aside from the disclosure of Ruby’s name and the “exclusive” photo, the Register’s story was a hash of old news, spiced up with idle speculation about the Alley Angel’s morals. The rest of the ride to Tremayne’s seemed longer than usual.

  * * *

  MR. VALENTINE STOOD at the entrance to Ladies’ Wear, his goldenrod necktie so bright I was tempted to slip my sunglasses on again. “Miss Frost. Good to have you back after your ordeal.”

  “I’m sorry for any inconvenience.”

  “The way those detectives questioned you, I thought you were a suspect.” He forced an amiable chuckle. So did I.

  Next stop hat department, Mr. Valentine nipping at my heels like a terrier. “I read the story in this morning’s paper,” he said solicitously. “That was your friend, the blond girl? Tragic, just tragic. I thought Lorna put it beautifully in her column. Felled by ‘the traps and snares of moviedom.’” He cupped his hand as he spoke as if clutching Yorick’s skull.

  “She certainly has a way with words.” Ruby had always hated Lorna Whitcomb, branding her a “withered-face crab who bombed out as a chorus girl.”

  I started primping the hat displays, grooming every feather like a vain parakeet. Still Mr. Valentine lingered, reluctant to leave his flesh and blood link to the big news story of the day. He might have tarried all morning if the store’s assistant manager hadn’t come to retrieve him. He took his leave for Tremayne’s loftier climes. Abruptly, he turned back. “By the way, that’s a lovely outfit. Very smart.”

  Two compliments. Something else to mention to Edith now that I had a moment to call her.

  * * *

  HEARING EDITH’S UNMISTAKABLE crisp tone brought my mother’s brooch to mind, making me absurdly emotional all over again.

  “Lillian, a pleasure to hear from you. I hope you’re well.”

  “I’m wonderful, thanks to you.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I’m sure you do. Consider me in your debt forever.”

  “Let’s say I’m happy to help a fellow working girl and leave it at that.” She made a noise that sounded like a suppressed yawn. “Forgive me. I burned the candle at both ends last night searching our storage room.”

  “How much else did Ruby take?”

  Her pause indicated I’d surmised correctly. “What makes you ask that?”

  “Ruby came to the department store where I work to sound me out about stealing clothes. That implies taking the Sophie
Lang gown wasn’t a spur of the moment impulse. I also learned she’d been moving in some rarefied air lately.” I told her about Armando and Natalie.

  “I knew you were a resourceful young woman as soon as we met,” Edith said. “You put me in mind of myself, in fact. Several women’s costumes are missing. Ruby didn’t necessarily take them … but they’re in her size.”

  “Detective Morrow will be interested to hear that.”

  “Yes. Provided he does hear it.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I issued a full report to our security chief Mr. Groff. He was, as you might imagine, displeased. Particularly with Ruby’s brief history at Paramount being bruited in the newspapers this morning.”

  “I read the Register on my way to work.”

  “Then you likely saw Lorna Whitcomb’s dig at me. Horrible woman. She still blames me for the costumes she wore when she was under contract here for seven minutes a millennia ago.”

  “Are you saying Mr. Groff doesn’t intend to inform the police about the missing clothes?”

  “He left me with that distinct impression. He wants to spare the studio additional negative publicity. Unless the clothes are found and conclusively tied to Ruby, I fear he won’t report them.”

  I had an inkling Edith wasn’t relaying this palace intrigue to make idle chitchat. Her hands were tied, but mine weren’t. And I knew Ruby and her habits. Edith had stealthily given me my marching orders: Look for the stolen wardrobe and get cracking on repaying that debt. Apparently I wasn’t the only resourceful person on this phone call.

  * * *

  WE MADE PLANS to speak later. Edith rang off to attend to the day’s fittings while I spent the better part of the next hour wrangling two dowagers intent on buying twin turbans. I had my back turned, trying to restore order to my station, when I heard the voice.

  “Hello, Lillian,” it said, playing with each syllable like a piece of French candy.

  Gooseflesh raised, I turned and spied a man I’d hoped never to encounter again.

  Tommy Carpa wore a chocolate-brown topcoat with a velvet collar that made him look more like a young banker than a club owner of questionable repute. His nose was bent at an angle, the result of a childhood accident. That misleading hint of brutality lent his features a character they didn’t deserve. He was flanked by two ambulatory monoliths in identical pinstripe suits. At least I assumed they were ambulatory; I hadn’t seen either of them move. I tried to speak only to discover I’d gone cotton-mouthed.