Design for Dying

by Renee Patrick

  “Right now my only thought is I’ll take you home whenever you’re ready. You just say the word.”

  As he walked away I spotted Mr. Valentine in the display window, shaking his head at the fallen mannequins like he was going to have bury them all personally, turkey included. Tomorrow morning could take its sweet time coming.

  25

  IN MY DREAM the display window dummies had risen from the debris of their ruined Thanksgiving and were chasing me up Broadway, the mother brandishing a horn of plenty like a blunderbuss. Their footsteps sounded hollow, like rapping on wood. It took me a moment to realize I’d awakened and someone was knocking on my door. My relief was tempered by the fact I had a visitor at five past midnight. I rousted an umbrella, my version of a Louisville Slugger, and inquired as to my caller’s identity.

  “It’s Vi.”

  We hadn’t spoken since our dustup over Tommy Carpa and the purloined comb. “How’d you get into the building?”

  “I waited outside and followed one of your neighbors in. Can you open up? I think he’s watching me.”

  Not Mr. Pendergast, I hoped, foreseeing with crystal-ball clarity six months of him buttonholing me in the hall to ask when Blondie would come by again.

  “Are you alone? Or do you have Tommy in tow?”

  “It’s just me. I swear.”

  I took her at her word. Vi was wearing her waitress uniform, the glare of the overhead light giving the short black dress a dull sheen.

  “What’s so urgent?”

  “Tommy wants to talk to you.”

  “Not on your life. Wait, you know where he is?”

  “For the next little while, anyway. He’s only staying there until I bring you to him. He heard what happened at Tremayne’s. He wants you to know he didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “The smart play is for you to call the police and tell them where Tommy’s holed up.”

  “I can’t do that, Lillian. I promised.”

  “Aren’t you taking this infatuation too far? I know you think you’re in love with Tommy. What’s worse is you seem to think he’s in love with you.”

  She shook her head once, the sweep as deliberate as a searchlight’s. “Not anymore. Not the way he’s acting. He’s swooning over a dead girl. I know that now.”

  “So why help him?”

  “Because it might help you, too. You’ve got no reason to trust me after how I acted, but I would never lead you into trouble. Honest. Tommy only wants to talk.”

  She raised three fingers, the Girl Scout sign testament to her sincerity. Maybe Vi really was over the palooka. I raided my closet wondering what Edith would advise me to wear to a wee hour rendezvous in an undisclosed location. Black seemed right.

  * * *

  VI FIRED UP Tommy’s green Packard and pointed it toward West Hollywood. Anyone still awake was there. I stared out at the stumpy palm trees lining Sunset Boulevard, watching swells swan in and out of nightclubs swaddled in furs that suited the calendar if not the climate.

  One block off the main drag, the action became markedly more furtive. Dark figures in shadowy doorways, their clothes still flashy but their faces turned away from the street. The Packard pulled up outside a brick bunker with curtains shrouding gun-slit windows. The faded sign over the door announced ELMO’S with a shrug.

  The interior didn’t nudge the needle on the charm meter. We navigated a maze of tables occupied by couples who’d clearly made poor choices long before setting foot in Elmo’s. Vi reached a thickset man holding up the wall on the far side of the room.

  “Hey, Hazel,” he said to Vi. “Can you sing? Our regular girl came down with something.”

  “A case of better judgment?” I offered to no reply.

  “Sorry, Harry. I’m tone-deaf.” Vi gestured at the wall. “We’ve got to go up.”

  Harry stepped aside. The door behind him, flush with the wall and so low I had to duck under the frame, was almost unnoticeable. It gave onto a rickety flight of stairs.

  “Since when are you tone-deaf? And Hazel?”

  “Like I’d sing or use my right name in this dump.” The secondhand defiance in her voice made sweet little Vi sound, once again, like Ruby.

  One of the doors on the next floor led into a dingy storeroom. Vi knocked softly on the other.

  “Took long enough,” Tommy grumbled as he let us into a dank office crowded with cast-off furniture. An open fifth of rye kept company on the scarred desktop with the remains of a barbecue pork sandwich.

  “Be nice to Vi,” I said. “I’m only here because she asked.”

  “Thanks, kid.” He said it as pleasantly as he could. Vi left us alone, closing the door behind her.

  “See? I can be cordial.” Tommy shoveled his hair back, leaving it standing up in wild thickets. The room was stifling and reeked of desperation, some of it vintage. “Place used to be a speakeasy. Did a lot of business in this neighborhood once upon a time.”

  The hour was late for a history lesson. “Vi says you have something to tell me.”

  He snuffed out a cigarette and promptly sparked another, pacing all the while. “You were there when someone took a shot at Troncosa today.”

  Interesting he had no compunction about naming Troncosa the target. “I saw the whole thing. What there was to see.”

  “You didn’t see me.”

  “I also didn’t see Vice President Garner or Rin Tin Tin.”

  “That’s because none of us had anything to do with it. Innocent parties to a man and dog.” He kept moving, changing course abruptly, trailing smoke like an engine on the Rock Island Line. “I wanted you to know that. And to relay that fact to John Law.”

  “I don’t know it’s a fact. And it would sound better coming from you. Could you light somewhere a minute? I’m getting dizzy tracking you around the room.”

  He perched almost daintily on the edge of an armchair. “I know how lazy cops are. They’re going to figure I took a run at Troncosa. I need you to convince them otherwise.”

  “You haven’t convinced me yet. You have reasons to want Troncosa dead. Maybe you think he had something to do with Ruby’s murder. Maybe you hate him because he had Ruby and you didn’t, even if he thought she was a princess named Natalie.”

  “That spic didn’t have her. He’s got geetus I couldn’t make if I ran every legit joint in California, but he never had Ruby.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “She told me.”

  “She told you what, exactly? And when?”

  He leaned forward and looked me in the eye. I stared right back. I was mad. After all, I’d been asleep in my cozy bed.

  “You ask a lot of questions,” he said.

  “And you’re asking for favors.”

  “If I tell you, you’ll talk to your buddy Morrow?”

  “If your story makes sense.”

  “It makes sense all right.” He stood up. Time for more laps. “Ruby dumped me after we got in trouble at a big house in the hills a while back.”

  “When Addison Rice banned you?”

  “Christ. Who told you?”

  “Addison. He mentioned narcotics and prostitution.”

  “Ruby was never part of that.” Tommy jabbed two fingers at me, throttling his cigarette. “I took her there to enjoy herself. And she did. So did Addison’s friends. Until he caught wise, made a lot of noise. I laughed it off. Plenty of parties up there looking for the entertainments I can provide. But Ruby wasn’t happy about it. She finally figured out I wasn’t enough of a gentleman for her. Said she could do better than me. Hell, I’d been telling her that from the start.” He stopped walking the floor and smoothed his hair. This time it behaved. “About three weeks ago, she shows up at the club. Needs to talk. First time I saw her with dark hair. I preferred her as a blonde. Suited her personality. She fills me in on what she’s been up to, playing at being a princess. I was kinda proud of her. I’d seen this Natalie’s name in the papers, thought about inviting her to my club.
”

  “But Ruby wasn’t there to brag.”

  Tommy spit away a fleck of tobacco. “Yeah. Turns out some private detective name of Beckett found out what she was doing. She’d gotten her hooks into Troncosa as well as a picture director called Minot. Beckett was strong-arming her into taking them and anyone else for all she could lay her hands on.”

  “What did she want you to do?”

  “Exert some pressure of my own. Lean on Beckett, let him know Ruby had friends. Who know how to deal with blackmailers.”

  “What went wrong?”

  Tommy’s brow beetled. “Fucking Beckett.”

  “Pardon your French.”

  “Fucking Beckett did his legwork. He was ready for me. He knew the cops Rice had acting as muscle when he read me the riot act. Beckett had them primed to talk at his say so. Would’ve loused up my plans to expand into legitimate areas. A certain shadiness most people don’t mind. Ask your pal Addison. But drugs? Girls? That’s low class. And I’ve got a deal for a new place cooking. With some Rotarians, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Ruby must not have taken the news you weren’t going to lift a finger for her very well.”

  The burning end of his cigarette swung in my direction. “I lifted a finger. I’d have lifted my whole goddamned hand if she asked. I told her I’d say to hell with the Rotarians. Pansies, the lot of them. She said she had another way.”

  “Did she say what it was?”

  “Yeah, and I told her it’d never fly. Minot was wrapped around her finger. She was banking on him getting her in at his studio. Minot was going to direct her in a screen test—as Princess Natalie. She’d wow ’em, sign a contract, and let Lodestar security handle Beckett.”

  It didn’t sound like such a harebrained scheme to me. It would have given Ruby leverage with Beckett, and it explained why she’d strung Laurence along. Malice against Diana had nothing to do with it; Edith had been right yet again. “That test would have been something to see,” I said. “I wish she’d pulled it off.”

  “I don’t. She’d have been Natalie for good. Like Ruby never existed.” A silence overtook Tommy. He stared at a stain on the wall the exact size and shape of a T-bone steak hurled in anger. “But Minot wasn’t interested in her talents. Not her acting talents, anyway. If he only knew she was running a sandy on him. He’s another mug I’d like to get my hands on.”

  It was no idle threat; the air around Tommy crackled with violence. I groped behind me for the doorknob.

  “I should have beaten Beckett to death when I had the chance.” Tommy said it ruefully, the way I’d regret not buying a discounted dress. “Solved everyone’s problems at once.”

  “Do you think Beckett killed Ruby?”

  “If Ruby tried to put one over on him, he’d pop her and leave her with the trash. Tell Morrow that.”

  “I’ll give him your side of the story. Whether he believes it is up to him.”

  “Don’t bother telling where you saw me. I’ll be shoving off a second after you leave.”

  “Sticking close?”

  “For a spell. But Mexico’s a hop, skip, and a jump away. Caliente’s nice this time of year.”

  “I hear it’s nice any time of year.”

  “Ruby always liked it. You could have come along on one of our trips if you’d been nicer to me.”

  * * *

  VI SAID NOTHING as she drove me home, giving me time to absorb Tommy’s story. I couldn’t dislodge Gene’s words from my mind: anybody who knew Ruby and Natalie were one and the same fell under greater suspicion. Tommy had made that knowledge the centerpiece of his tale. In trying to clear his name, he’d only dug himself in deeper.

  Outside Mrs. Quigley’s, Vi turned to me. “I told you he loved her.”

  “You were listening at the door.”

  “I couldn’t listen to that singer they found.” She gnawed on her lower lip. “I may not be seeing you again. It’s time for me to head back to Seattle. I’m not cut out for life down here.”

  I opened the car door. “If you’re tough enough to see Tommy for who he is, you’re tough enough to wait out these fools in casting. Do me a favor, Hazel. Don’t head north just yet. Opportunity is effort’s reward.”

  26

  I’D ABOUT READIED myself for my return to Tremayne’s when Mrs. Quigley beat a tattoo brimming with brio on my door. I soon saw why. In each hand she held an ultramarine glass globe overflowing with pink and white petunias.

  “Two bouquets!” she bubbled. “But only one card.”

  Lillian,

  Thinking of you after your ordeal. Give the second arrangement to your boss as a peace offering.

  EH

  It was a lovely gesture as well as a shrewd one. Typical of Edith. But I didn’t see why I should inconvenience myself ferrying flowers on the streetcar to a man who hadn’t been shot at, so on my windowsills both vases remained. My flat never looked so homey.

  A team of glaziers coaxed Tremayne’s new display window into its frame. I took their labors as a sign that life goes on, new days dawn, and other such optimistic hokum. The era of good feeling lasted three full minutes, until Mr. Valentine beckoned me to his ersatz office. The thought struck me: I should have brought the petunias.

  He was wedged behind his desk in the stock room, mask of tragedy face in place. Actors aren’t the only ones who have performances to repeat. As he delivered lines clearly familiar to him, my internal elevator began its downward plunge.

  “We need to talk.”

  I smiled, hoping he’d respond in kind. He did not. The elevator’s brakes failed to catch, the car continuing its plummet to the bottom of the shaft.

  “Mrs. Tremayne spoke with me last evening. I’m sure you know how supportive she is of her employees. The elocution lessons, the tearoom discount, that’s all her doing.”

  A last-ditch lunge at the emergency brake. “She’s very generous. It’s one of the reasons I love working here.”

  “Even her generosity has its limits. Those limits have been reached.” He semaphored his distress with his handkerchief, a shock of tangerine. “I’m afraid we’re letting you go, Lillian.”

  The cable snapped. Just like that, I’d failed at two careers.

  “Because of the window?”

  “The window was merely the last straw. Other recent incidents contributed, like your frequent absences. I explained to Mrs. Tremayne that you were a promising employee, but the decision wasn’t mine.”

  “You couldn’t have fired me over the phone and saved me streetcar fare?” I aimed for a joking tone but could hear the anger in my voice when my words hit the air. I’d traveled thousands of miles alone, realized I was unsuited to be an actress, and found a niche for myself at Tremayne’s. Now I was out on my ear with zero prospects. Worse, I was venting my frustration on Mr. Valentine, who’d at least pled my case to the gorgon whose name hung over the door.

  My now-former boss, unflappable to the last, reached into his pocket and retrieved a quarter. “For the streetcar. When you land on your feet, Lillian, I hope you’ll continue to shop at Tremayne’s.”

  I took the coin. From now on, every cent counted.

  * * *

  I RETURNED TO Ladies’ Foundations for a valedictory tour. A stack of slips had been knocked askew. I made no move to straighten it. It was no longer my responsibility. Instead I called Gene, determined to accomplish something this morning.

  “Thank God,” he said. “When there were no messages waiting, I feared the worst.”

  “I figured what Tommy Carpa told me last night would keep.” I heard Gene’s chair squeak as he leaned forward. My story didn’t take long to relay. “Tommy made it plain he wasn’t about to stay where he was, so don’t give me grief about not telephoning right away.”

  “I wasn’t going to. Is everything all right? You sound tense.”

  “Being fired will do that to you.”

  “What? That’s a hell of a thing. Does Tremayne’s think you shot out that window
yourself? I’m sorry, Lillian. I truly am. What will you do now?”

  “The very question I’m pondering. You know any department stores that need a salesgirl?”

  “Let me ask around.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “I don’t have department store connections, but I know other people. I’ll honestly be able to tell them what a hard worker you are by the effort you put into doing my job. I’ll do whatever I can for you.”

  I was touched. “That would be swell. Thank you.”

  On my way to bid adieu to the salesladies, I straightened the stack of slips. Once a Catholic girl, always a Catholic girl. God and Mrs. Tremayne were watching.

  * * *

  “WHAT BRINGS YOU hither in the middle of the day?” Kay had a pencil behind her ear.

  “Explaining will take several minutes.”

  She ushered me into a Modern Movie office empty of people but full of trophies. Golf, tennis, you name it. “Welcome to the inner sanctum of Max Bittner. He’s worried being an editor at a fan magazine is a feminine occupation and wants to show he’s all man. As if pinching the secretaries wasn’t enough. He’s never touched me, I’ve noticed. Your timing is impeccable. Guess what I just found out?”

  Her mile-wide grin told me her news was happier than mine. “Gable’s getting divorced?”

  “Better than that. I’ve been assigned my first story. A feature, no less. With a byline.”

  “That’s fantastic!” I gave her a hug. “A year of checking punctuation and they finally realized what a great writer you are. What’s the story?”

  “You’re going to love this. Your pal Addison Rice. I suggested we do the piece you ran past him. America’s number-one movie fan, host to the stars. Modern Movie and Addison both went for it! No mention of Tommy and Ruby, of course. But here’s the kicker. I’ve been invited to his next party!”

  My smile, sincere though it was, became a pain to hold in place. “Consider me officially jealous. What’s the theme? Do you have to dress like Thomas Jefferson and go on a scavenger hunt?”

  “Oh, it’s worse than that. It’s a ‘come as you are’ party. Addison sent photographers with the invitations. Your picture’s snapped as you get the envelope, and that’s how you have to show up. They caught me yesterday with this lousy pencil behind my ear. Now nobody will let me take it out. At least I had on a nice dress. That paprika one, with the brown collar and belt? That’s what I’ll be wearing come Saturday night.”