If Edith wasn’t going to comment on my unintentional badmouthing of her husband, I wasn’t about to bring it up. I was all for keeping things professional. “Didn’t your friend Bill say we made a good team? I want to help. Not just you, but Ruby. I keep thinking about what Natalie said, that Ruby called me her one true friend.”
“‘We women are creatures of the heart, aren’t we?’ Yes, I’ve been contemplating Natalie’s words myself. Here we are.”
Edith owned an eminently sensible gray sedan, which she drove like a bright red racing car. Two turns off the Paramount lot and I was hanging on for dear life. She pulled off Sunset onto a street spiraling into the hills. It was another glorious day, the sun beaming on automatic, the air so fragrant with oranges and promise it was practically moist. The trees overhanging the road were garlanded with tiny red blossoms. I felt like we were the only float in an impromptu parade, and I was too keyed up to enjoy it.
“Stop whimpering every time I make a turn, Lillian, and let’s discuss your overture to Mr. Rice.”
We’d formulated a plan by the time we reached a wrought-iron gate flanked by white stone pillars. An intercom was set into one. Edith told the box that Mr. Rice was expecting Miss Frost, and the gate swung open at once.
“Unbelievable,” I said. “Why do I think you could finagle an audience with Pope Pius himself?”
A sweeping lawn eventually gave way to a mock Venetian palazzo. Possibly openly mocking; the eye-popping edifice of whitewashed stone had a demure flamboyance. Edith pursed her lips and refrained from judgment. She maneuvered the car around a fountain and stopped before a front door so large I expected it to lower like a drawbridge. “I’d wait for you but I have a wardrobe check on the extras in Dorothy Lamour’s latest. We can’t have any island natives wearing wristwatches. Will you be able to get home?”
“Either Detective Morrow will give me a ride or I’ll move in. I’m sure they’ve got a spare wing.”
* * *
THE HOUSE MAY have been faux-Italian but the butler was authentically English, as welcoming as the moors of his native scepter’d isle. Arched windows filled a foyer big enough for the Army–Navy game with a buttery glow.
With Jeeves’s discreet departure a smartly dressed and hugely pregnant brunette appeared. She smiled so I’d know she’d already forgiven the monumental inconvenience I would undoubtedly prove to be. “Miss Frost? From Modern Movie?”
I’d heard enough of Kay’s stories to feel I could plausibly pass myself off as a stringer for the magazine. I tested out a bored nod.
The brunette accepted it. “Gladys Somers, Addison Rice’s social secretary. Mr. Rice will join us momentarily. Do you have any questions I can answer in the meantime?”
Brandishing a stenographer’s notebook liberated from Paramount, I rummaged for a pen, crayon, or sharpened feather. A regular Nellie Bly I was. I unearthed a pencil with no eraser but plenty of teeth marks. “Some basic background on Mr. Rice should suffice.”
“Addison Rice holds the patents on a number of advances in telephone and radio equipment over the past twenty years. He retired to California from Massachusetts to be closer to Arizona, where his wife Maude spends much of her time for her health.”
“Mr. Rice has become quite the host. We’ve featured his parties many times.” My voice had become strangely patrician. So help me, I was acting again.
Mrs. Somers was good. You could scarcely see her fuming. “Mr. Rice does much more than that. He also makes his home available for various concerts and charity events.”
As she recited chapter and verse on several dozen such soirees, my attention drifted to the garden where a man came toward us. He was either stout or portly, wealthy enough that a vocabulary had been devised to conceal his girth. Not that his blazingly white suit did the same. The orange tie he wore with it gave him the appearance of a roaming butterscotch sundae, his florid face the cherry on top. A trim mustache dozed under his nose.
“I do hope I haven’t kept you waiting. Addison Rice.” Against my better judgment I found myself admiring his seersucker suit. He should have looked foolish in it. He did look foolish in it. But he also seemed completely at ease. “Marvelous, the colors one can wear in California. I’d be laughed off Boylston Street in these clothes. Shall we move our conversation to the patio? No sense wasting a lovely day. We could have iced tea sent out.”
“I don’t want to take up too much of your time, Mr. Rice.”
“Addison. Mr. Rice worked for a living, Addison is a man of leisure. You’re all I have on my docket for the afternoon.” He labored to keep his pronounced Boston accent in check. “I’m tickled a movie magazine would want to talk to a staid old businessman like me.”
“Our readers want to know what America’s premier fan of the movies thinks of pictures and Hollywood in general.”
Addison fairly levitated at my words, and the butterflies that had been circling in my stomach all made flawless three-point landings. “‘America’s premier fan of the movies.’ Oh, we’ll most definitely be sitting outside.”
* * *
THE WICKER CHAIRS were cushioned, the table shaded by a green canvas umbrella, the freshly brewed iced tea seasoned with mint and lemon. The phony correspondent was deliriously happy.
“Addison, what’s the secret to hosting a great party?”
“Well, I’m sure I don’t know.” My host’s modesty was unconvincing, and more becoming because of it. “I do have one rule, and that’s mix it up. You can’t only invite movie people. Too much shoptalk, too many jealousies you don’t know about. You want to strike a balance. A few guests from the society pages, folks who have made a splash in other parts of the newspaper, even the odd rough-and-tumble type. That’s a recipe for an evening. Variety is a necessity when you throw these little get-togethers two or three times a month.”
Two or three times a month. An impressed coo seemed the only appropriate reaction, so I tried one on for size. “Our readers are familiar with the stars. Let’s talk about some of the others in your mix, like Princess Natalie Szabo.”
“Her life story’s a picture in itself. A member of the Hungarian royal family now estranged from her fatherland. Or is it motherland? Cut off from her fortune, at any rate.”
“We’ve heard tell she’s considering a movie career.”
“I could see her playing Garbo types, like in Anna Karenina. She has that dark and mysterious way about her. Very … European.”
“Speaking of dark and mysterious, is it true the object of her passion is Armand Troncosa?”
“Aren’t you well informed? I had the pleasure of meeting the princess through Armand. Has quite the yen for her.”
“Does he?”
“Armand’s a bit of a ladies’ man. Something of a roué, I suppose you’d say. Different young lady on his arm every night. But once he met Natalie, he was transformed. He’s escorted her here several times. You can tell he’s beyond infatuated with her. Smitten. Besotted. All rather sweet, I thought.”
“You mentioned rough-and-tumble types. That brings me to something I wanted to ask you about.”
“Heavens. Sounds serious.”
“I’d like to confirm you knew Ruby Carroll. The poor girl who was recently murdered. The one the newspapers call the Alley Angel.”
Addison lowered his glass of iced tea. He stared intently at me for a long moment then shifted closer, scraping his chair on the terrazzo.
“My apologies, Lillian. I was debating whether to have something stronger brought to the table to toast your initiative. I’ve been waiting for someone to ask me about Ruby. Such a shame, what happened to her. Who thought Modern Movie would come to me before the police did? I applaud you.”
The praise, as always, was a joy to receive. But it could blow up in my face should Gene arrive. “I’m sure they’ll be here before you know it. It’s only been a few days. Was Ruby a regular guest?”
“No. She attended a few parties some time ago. On the arm of a friend
of a friend.”
Then how did she have an invitation? “Does this friend of a friend have a name?”
“I’d rather not say. You understand.”
“Of course.” I added a few new teeth marks to the pencil’s collection. “Was it Tommy Carpa?”
“By thunder! I’ll be raising a toast to you yet.” Addison traced a pattern into the condensation on his glass. “Carpa’s a restaurateur and nightclub owner, they told me, sort of a Billy Wilkerson in the making. So I invited him. He brought lovely ladies along, and they’re always a welcome addition.”
“And one of those lovely ladies was Ruby Carroll.”
“Yes. I chatted with her several times. Seemed an intelligent girl, and I told her so. Too smart to be involved with the likes of Mr. Carpa.” He pronounced Tommy’s surname as if he were trying to hold it away from his body.
“When did you last see Ruby?”
“About six months ago, when I also saw the last of Mr. Carpa. I banished him and his cohort from my parties.”
“Why, may I ask?”
“Now, Lillian, that I can’t answer. I really can’t.”
I set down my pencil. “Mr. Rice. Addison. You have my word nothing you tell me will appear in the pages of Modern Movie.”
“I trust you. I do. But I feel damned awkward about it, and it was so long ago I’m sure it has nothing to do with what happened to Ruby. Now can I clear up this business about Wallace Beery that was in your magazine?”
I was trying to figure out how to inquire about the puzzle piece invitation in Ruby’s belongings when Mrs. Somers waddled out in no small degree of consternation. “A Detective Morrow is here to see you, sir.”
Addison heaved himself to his feet and rubbed his hands together. “Send him out! Remarkable. Simply remarkable. Stay right here, Lillian.”
I assured Addison I wasn’t about to go anywhere.
* * *
GENE MIRACULOUSLY MAINTAINED his sangfroid when Addison introduced me as “the noted correspondent for Modern Movie who scooped the LAPD.” He even smiled as he shook my hand, grinding his teeth and a few of my bones in the process. “We don’t subscribe to Miss Frost’s publication at headquarters. If you wouldn’t mind bringing us latecomers up to speed?”
“I almost feel Lillian should do the honors considering how she bested you.” Addison laughed, and with my eyes I begged him to stop flattering me.
At the end of Addison’s recitation, Gene asked, “Why’d you ban Carpa from your house, Mr. Rice?”
“I suppose I have to tell you, don’t I? Lillian, you gave me your word, remember. This is off the record.” Addison’s body slumped as if he were starting to melt. “He had been, ah, engaging in illicit activities on the premises.”
“Illicit activities such as?”
“Mr. Carpa supplied narcotics to several of my guests. It’s also my understanding his lady friends … offered paid companionship. I never confirmed that. In any case, I’m certain Ruby wasn’t involved.”
How I longed to believe that.
“You didn’t report these activities to the police?” Gene asked.
“I didn’t want one man to spoil my parties. I felt the prudent course of action was to bar him from my home.”
“Carpa couldn’t have taken that well.”
“No, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. Before I spoke to him I made sure I had some, as they say in the pictures, backup.” A grin surfaced on his face, at once embarrassed and mischievous. “I hire off-duty police officers to serve as security for my get-togethers. So everyone can feel comfortable, you understand. I had them on hand when I instructed Tommy to leave.”
“And Ruby got the heave-ho at the same time?” I asked.
“Yes, all of Mr. Carpa’s guests did. I took Ruby aside that evening and told her she could do better than a common hoodlum destined for jail. Even offered to help find her a job. I never heard from her again.”
Gene placed the puzzle piece on the table. “This was among Miss Carroll’s possessions. We have reason to believe it’s an invitation to your most recent party.”
“It most certainly is. Ruby had this? I can’t fathom how. I had no way of contacting her, so I couldn’t have invited her even if I’d wanted to.”
“There’s a date written on the back. December eleventh. Any significance to that?”
“No. I don’t have a party planned then. Not yet, anyway.” Addison signaled Mrs. Somers. “Gladys, I think we may have filled in the upper left quadrant.”
“I believe you may be right. Shall we check?”
We decamped for what I assumed to be the game room, a deduction based solely on the pool table, chessboards, and pinball machines. An enormous jigsaw puzzle, incomplete and supported by several easels, depicted the very house we stood in. It looked equally gaudy in two dimensions. Mrs. Somers slotted the piece from Ruby’s suitcase into position easily. She then consulted a nearby file. Her subsequent bulletin did not come as a surprise. “That invitation was sent to Princess Natalie Szabo.”
“If Ruby had Natalie’s invitation, that means Natalie didn’t come to the party,” Gene said.
“Yes. I was disappointed. It was the first time she would have attended on her own and not as Armand Troncosa’s guest. He was traveling.”
“Still is. We haven’t been able to locate him.” Gene pointedly turned to me. “And we’ve been trying.”
“Forgive me for interrupting,” Mrs. Somers murmured efficiently, “but a letter from the princess arrived in this morning’s post. I have it here.” She held an envelope aloft, which Addison waved into Gene’s hands. I didn’t intend to peer over his shoulder as he read. It simply happened. The stationery was from the Merriman Hotel in San Francisco. The letters sloped uphill as if marching double-time across the page.
November 6
Dearest Addy,
A quick note to beg your forgiveness for my absence from this evening’s gaiety. An urgent matter called me north at the last minute. Crushed, crushed to miss all the fun. Don’t hold my inexcusable lapse in manners against me when drafting your next guest list.
With all my affection,
Natalie
“Postmarked in San Francisco on Monday,” Gene said with a glance at the Merriman Hotel’s envelope.
“And I’d so looked forward to squiring Natalie around,” Addison said. “Such a warm presence. Always talking about her charity work back in the old country. Orphanages, soup kitchens … or would that be goulash kitchens?” He paused, enjoying his joke. “Told me about her family in America. Has a cousin, down on her luck, who lives out here now. Trying to break into pictures.”
The butterflies were back in my stomach, larger now. “Did the princess mention this cousin by name?”
“Yes, I believe she did. Rose? No. It was Roza.”
I became light-headed so quickly I feared I would topple forward and undo everyone’s efforts on the jigsaw puzzle.
“Roza Karolyi?” Gene kept his voice neutral.
“Yes! My apologies, Detective Morrow. Clearly you’ve been working on this matter diligently. Have you met Miss Karolyi?”
“No. But her name’s come up.” Gene reached out to steady me, the look in his eyes pulling me into an instant conspiracy. Say nothing.
“If you find her, do tell me. I’d love to help her out. For the life of me I can’t figure out how Ruby acquired Natalie’s invitation. They hardly moved in the same circles. Now, Miss Frost, can we get back to Wallace Beery and how he left a crack in my floor?”
He took me by the arm before I could reply and led me deeper into the house. Gene, trailing us, addressed Mrs. Somers. “Where did you send Princess Natalie’s invitation?”
The woman with all the answers checked her records. “In care of the Hotel Normandie Park.”
Gene did what a humble fake reporter couldn’t get away with and requested a copy of the party’s guest list. Addison dispatched Mrs. Somers to retrieve one.
We enter
ed a dining room featuring a table for twenty. Addison stopped behind a chair and pointed to the floor. There it was, a hairline crack in the marble. “Behold, Mr. Beery’s last stand. Your magazine said he did that falling off a chair.”
“That wasn’t the case?”
“Oh, no. He was on the table at the time.” While we waited for Mrs. Somers to return, Addison and I went back and forth on the subject of movies. He made a strong case that Greta Garbo was a better actress than Marlene Dietrich while Gene sat stonily. I was mounting a halfhearted defense of The Garden of Allah when the secretary reappeared with the guest list.
“We’ll finish this discussion another day,” Addison said. “I can’t remember the last time I spoke to someone who’s seen as many pictures as I have.”
“And her with a full-time job and everything,” Gene said.
“A job many girls would envy, I’m sure.”
“Huh?” I’d been having so much fun talking about pictures I’d forgotten my imaginary journalism career. “Oh, they do. All my friends want to be me.”
Addison shook both our hands fervently. “What a day this has been. A reporter and a detective grilling me in my own home. This is giving me such ideas for my next party. A third-degree bash! I can see it now.”
18
AS THE SPRAWLING estate of Addison Rice receded, I envisioned the kind of place I’d want for myself. I could only picture one of those sleek Manhattan apartments with a baby grand piano, a wet bar, and a view of the city’s twinkling lights. Even with warm air against my skin and the scent of eucalyptus so strong it burst on my tongue, I maintained a New Yorker’s idea of home.
I changed the baby grand to an upright French provincial, creating more space for entertaining. I had the luxury of rearranging my fantasy abode’s furniture because Gene, in the driver’s seat next to me, wasn’t saying a word. He was busy exercising his jaw muscles, ratcheting the lower half of his face tight. I feared for his molars and my well-being.
Design for Dying Page 13
