Design for Dying

by Renee Patrick

  My heart ached for Ruby all over again. She’d come so close to getting away with it.

  “Now we know why Winton Beckett risked turning up at Addison’s party.”

  “And we have a new problem. With Mr. Beckett dead, Mr. Minot may feel emboldened to eliminate the final threat to him.”

  “He’ll try to dispose of the screen test now. It proves he and Natalie were involved.”

  “I’ve already told Detective Morrow. On to more pressing business. Tell me what everyone at the party wore. Leave out no detail. The details are essential.”

  Somehow Edith managed to coax minutiae about the guests’ attire out of me I had no idea I’d retained. I still had more ground to cover when we reached Mrs. Quigley’s.

  “You can finish your report when you return the clothes.”

  “Thanks again for everything. What now? Back to bed, then a huge Sunday breakfast?”

  Edith looked scandalized. “Heavens, no! I’m off to Travis’s house to make sure he’s intact, then I’ll drive us both to the studio. I do it most mornings. He could stand to put in the extra time.”

  * * *

  MISS SARAH PROWLED the porch as I dug for my keys. At least someone was awake to greet me. “Lying in wait for the milkman?”

  The regal feline strutted around my legs in reply, rubbing herself against the linen of my slacks.

  “Watch it. These aren’t mine. Time to come inside.”

  I stooped to pick her up and heard a loud noise. A few splinters of doorjamb rained down on Miss Sarah’s dusky fur. She was so startled she darted right into my hands.

  I told myself it wasn’t a gunshot. I told myself again as I hit the deck. The house keys were in my hand, one of them jabbing Miss Sarah in the belly. But I couldn’t open the door without stepping into the glow of the porch light, and I wasn’t certain where the shot—why deny it?—had come from. I lay there, heart drumming against the knees mashed against my bosom, toe of my left shoe wedged into a mouse hole in the baseboard. Miss Sarah, at least, remained perfectly still in my arms. She could stay forever as far as I was concerned, the fussy Burmese the only reason I was still breathing. I glanced down and spotted a smear of dirt on the leg of my slacks. My borrowed slacks. My borrowed Paramount slacks that I’d taken such good care of. I’d kept them flawless while chasing after a dying man alongside the star of Night Nurse only to sully them at my own front door.

  The angry sigh escaped my lips before I could stop it. The oleander bush at the end of the porch rustled, as if someone were peering through it.

  Followed by the most beautiful sound in the world—lurid laughter on the other side of the front door.

  “Really, Frederick, you must leave. Some of my tenants get up early. Even on Sunday.”

  The door creaked open, casting yellow light on my hiding place. My eyes snapped to the oleander, but in the shifting shadows I couldn’t tell if the branches were moving.

  “Turn out the lights!” I croaked.

  “What? Who—?” Mrs. Quigley, bless her, leaned out to gawp at me at the same time she flicked the switches by her hand. Both the porch and entry lights were doused. I rolled to the porch railing holding my savior Miss Sarah aloft. As I moved, I thought I heard footsteps retreating from the building. But I couldn’t be sure, because Mrs. Quigley was already making with the questions.

  “Lillian, what is this foolishness? Did you drink too much at that party?” She shooed someone into her apartment, undoubtedly lamenting she couldn’t pretend it was the cat nestled in my arms.

  “No, just dropped something.” Before my assailant could fire again, I rose to a Bronko Nagurski squat with Miss Sarah playing pigskin and charged the door. Mrs. Quigley slammed it behind me. I glanced into her front parlor and glimpsed Frederick. Her gentleman caller was a heavy-set fellow in a threadbare salesman’s suit, fascinated by the assortment of doilies on her sofa.

  I handed Mrs. Quigley her heroic cat.

  “Sorry I woke you. I didn’t mean to make so much noise. Good night.” On I went upstairs, leaving Mrs. Quigley to soothe her bewildered swain.

  * * *

  GENE HAD LEFT the police station—whether for the night or the nonce, the sergeant didn’t know—so my message said I could be reached at Mrs. Lindros’s place. No way I was staying by myself on this night.

  Of course, that meant telephoning Mrs. Lindros’s place after three in the morning. I dialed with crossed fingers. Vi picked up immediately, her voice muffled by a mouthful of food and a strange clattering in the background.

  “Thank God you answered,” I said.

  “I’m staying up as late as I can. I don’t want tonight to end.”

  Would that I felt the same way. “Is Ready still around?”

  “Hat in hand and heading for the door. Shall I send him to your place?”

  He arrived scant moments later. Having been briefed by me, he’d circled the block before pulling up outside and observed nothing untoward. He ushered me to the car and drove straight to Mrs. Lindros’s.

  Vi was in her pj’s, which in turn wore a fine layer of coffee cake crumbs. The clattering was explained by the sight of Kay, hunched over a typewriter in the kitchen with not one but two pencils in her hair.

  “Hiya, doll,” she said without raising her eyes from the paper scrolling past the cylinder. “What’s cooking?”

  “The usual. Someone took a shot at me.”

  That warranted a look, but only a brief one. “Sure, I can see it. Beckett’s dying words might have been his killer’s name. Were they?”

  “No.”

  “There we are, then. Any more coffee, Vi?”

  Vi, who had run over to hug me, scampered to fetch the pot. She refilled Kay’s mug and spoke over the top of her head as if she weren’t there. “Kay’s typing up her impressions of the party while they’re fresh. She’s going to write something for one of the big newspapers!”

  “Congratulations. Did Barney Groff set this up, perchance?”

  “You know, kids, it’d be easier for mama to make her deadline if you took the chatter outside. Vi, coffee?”

  “Check your cup, Louella.” We left the room and passed a redfaced Ready at the front door.

  “Sorry if Kay was a mite curt with you. She’s had a big day.”

  “We all have.” I gave Ready a kiss good night. He gazed fearfully into the kitchen as Vi and I climbed to her room.

  “You’re staying with me tonight,” Vi said. “I won’t hear any arguments.”

  “I’m not hearing any, either.”

  On her bed lay a box. Small. Black velvet. Another of Armand Troncosa’s exceedingly generous gifts. Vi danced over to it, prying open the top with care. I saw a familiar glint of green.

  “Isn’t this divine?”

  “It’s something. From Armand?”

  “Yes! His friend Esteban gave it to me when he drove me home. We went to Armand’s house after the party for a light supper and a final glass of champagne. Armand said we needed one. Can you imagine that, needing a glass of champagne?” She giggled, her nose still ticklish.

  “When did you leave his place?”

  “About an hour and a half ago, I think. I can’t really remember.” Another peal of angelic laughter as she lifted the necklace from the box and held the emerald against her neck. “A token of Armand’s admiration. I’ve never gotten a token of anyone’s anything before.”

  I felt awkward, afraid I’d have to disabuse Vi of any notion the trinket warming itself against her skin represented a pledging of Armand’s troth.

  “Listen, Vi,” I started.

  “Don’t worry. I’m not expecting anything from Armand.”

  “You’re not?”

  “We spent the night talking about Ruby. He wanted to know what she was like. It was Tommy all over again, only with better cologne. At least I got something out of it this time. This will really go with that copper-colored dress I bought.”

  “It will. You’ll look great. So tell me abo
ut Armand’s house. Leave out no detail. The details are essential.”

  32

  MY SCHEME TO sneak out of Mrs. Lindros’s house without talking to anyone was scuppered when I realized I had nothing to wear. My party clothes were draped on a chair next to Vi’s bed so I couldn’t see the stain on the slacks. I wasn’t about to push my luck by donning Paramount’s wardrobe again.

  That meant finding something else to put on. I roused Vi. She leaped out of bed eager to help. In two shakes she’d procured a navy blue housedress printed with white anchors.

  “Where’s the little sailor hat that goes with it?”

  “Ever hear that line about beggars and choosers?”

  “Point taken. Where’d you scare this up?”

  “A new girl. Lorraine, from Kansas. She wants to be a comedienne.”

  Her best bet if she was my height. The dress billowed a bit, so I tied it around my waist with a belt. Not an Edith Head original, but it would do.

  My agenda went further awry downstairs, where I was blackjacked by the scent of bacon. Kay worked multiple burners like an irritatingly fresh-faced fry cook. “Morning, gals! Help yourselves to some eats.” Vi required no additional prompting, grabbing a chair as Kay fetched hash browns at their apex of crispness. “Sorry I was curt with you last night.”

  “You were working. So you’re going to write for one of the papers? Give Lorna Whitcomb a run for her money?”

  “Mr. Groff dangled the prospect. It remains to be seen if I can snatch it off the hook. In any case, I’m bound to get more assignments at Modern Movie thanks to you.”

  She set down a plate—bacon, potatoes, pancakes fluffier than the pillows upstairs—on a buttermilk biscuit–adjacent stretch of table. “Dig in. Do you want eggs? Barbara Stanwyck gave me her recipe.”

  My eyes and stomach vaulted to the food, but my legs stayed put. Stupid legs. I’d never questioned Kay’s motives before, but I did so now.

  She busied herself at the stove again, apparently expecting lumberjacks. “I feel awful about not listening to what happened after the party. Somebody shot at you?”

  I nodded as Vi poached a slice of my bacon.

  “My God.” Kay studied me with practiced concern. “Any idea who it was?”

  The scale of the treachery unfolding on the tablecloth dawned on me. “Kay? Are you pumping me for information? And using breakfast to do it?”

  “Can’t I fix a friend a meal after a trying experience?”

  “Not on a Sunday morning,” Vi said, suspicion not dulling her appetite. “You never cook Sunday mornings.”

  “Oh, hush,” Kay said, but it was too late. She was hoping to ferret out more material she could use in bargaining with Groff, and knew me well enough to serve her attack on a chipped blue plate with maple syrup at the ready. The betrayal was like a knife in my heart, the blade dripping with fresh butter.

  Canning the charade, Kay said, “Can’t blame a girl for working every angle she’s got.”

  “I’m an angle now? I thought we were friends.”

  “We are friends, sweetheart. That’s why I don’t exactly tumble to your attitude here. Edith Head gets to use you but your friends don’t?”

  One woman looking to save her job, the other fighting to forge a career of her own. I could understand how Kay thought of Edith and herself as cut from the same cloth, and I couldn’t begin to articulate the many ways she was wrong. Not even to myself.

  “Enjoy your breakfast,” I said. I retrieved my party clothes and headed for the door, resisting Kay’s importuning to stay. The aroma of bacon was harder to ignore, but I managed.

  * * *

  THE GOUGE IN the doorjamb where the bullet had been removed was a stubbornly unblinking eye gazing back at me, answering my question about whether the police had visited Mrs. Quigley’s. I stared at it like Scrooge’s door knocker, praying it would resolve into some otherworldly sign. No such luck. It remained an irregular hole in the wood.

  Mrs. Quigley bustled into the lobby as soon as I entered. Normally we’d talk in her parlor, but she seemed determined to pretend the room had been excised from the building now that I’d seen Frederick. “The police were here at the crack of dawn. They ruined my door frame and didn’t so much as apologize. You’re to telephone them at once. You also received a call from the actress Diana Galway! With an invitation to Sunday brunch! My land, you’re going everywhere these days.” She smiled at me. I smiled back. All four of our eyes strayed to the empty parlor. And we ended the conversation there.

  Gene, again, wasn’t at the police station. The desk officer I spoke to, however, had been issued clear instructions. I could practically hear him ticking off the boxes on a sheet of paper. “You are to remain exactly where you are and wait for Detective Morrow. You are to go nowhere else. You are to stay put. Is all of this clear to you?”

  “One more time would help.”

  “I am to ignore your smart-aleck comment and ask where you are right now.”

  I mouthed apologies to all the saints I could think of. “At the home of Diana Galway. Let me give you the address.”

  After confirming with Diana and arranging a cab, I turned to find Miss Sarah behind me. The pitiless look in her eyes said I own you. Even more than it usually did.

  * * *

  THE HOUSEMAID LED me into Castle Minot shortly after eleven. I’d showered and changed into a shirtwaist dress and pumps. No-nonsense attire. I had business to attend to.

  As we stepped into the backyard Diana scampered to a table in response to an unspoken call of Places! Laurence was already on his mark, seated and paging through the Times. A pool sparkled a few feet away. Another one, I thought, and realized I’d become blasé at the prospect of owning a swimming pool. Perhaps I’d already been in Los Angeles too long.

  Husband and wife smiled hugely at me. I gave as good as I got. I wasn’t walking into this matinee cold. I had lines of my own.

  “Lillian, I’m so glad you could make it.” Diana’s lounging outfit—wide-legged slacks and blouse that tied around her midriff—overcompensated for the previous evening’s party togs. Her straw hat was a world away from her gardening one, which I assumed she’d set ablaze upon arriving home. Laurence, meanwhile, had gone full lord of the manor with a smoking jacket and ascot.

  “I’m thrilled you invited me.”

  “I’m thrilled you’re here.”

  “We’re all thrilled,” Laurence said, Diana laughing as if he’d tossed off a bon mot worthy of Noël Coward. He waved at an iced pitcher of crimson liquid on the table. “Aperitif? It’s Campari. All the Italians are drinking it.”

  I nodded, and Laurence prepared a glass with ice and a spray of soda. I took a sip and pursed my lips.

  “Bitter,” Laurence said, “but you get used to it.”

  “Just like Hollywood.”

  Diana laughed again, favoring me with a clap as well. “Darling, let’s get Lillian fixed up with a plate.”

  The creamed finnan haddie wasn’t a patch on Kay’s breakfast bribe. I wondered how rude it would be to ask the maid if any bacon was lying around, and if it would be too much bother to fry it up. Laurence was right about the Campari, though; it was growing on me. We passed a lively hour in the jacaranda-scented breeze discussing events at Addison’s. Diana and Laurence had set aside their differences to present a unified front, punctuating their conversation with loving glances and hand-holding. All of it transparently designed to get me to give up whatever I’d learned that hadn’t made its way into the papers.

  But I knew better. I didn’t say a word about the attempted William Tell scene on my porch or ask Laurence about Natalie’s screen test. When Gene arrived, I’d flip over my cards. Until then I’d commiserate, turn their questions around, play dumb. At last, a role suited to my talents.

  Laurence wearied of my act. He pushed away from the table and flicked his napkin in surrender. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you ladies to it.”

  “Where are you off to
?” I asked.

  “The studio. No rest for the wicked.”

  “On a Sunday?”

  “Quietest day on the lot. Good chance to get ahead.”

  Also, I feared, the perfect time for him to dispose of the footage of Ruby. I couldn’t let him leave until Gene had talked to him. “You know, Laurence, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you about picture making.”

  “He would know,” Diana trilled, beaming at her man.

  Laurence seemed far less intrigued. “And what’s that?”

  A good question. Excellent, in fact. I reached for the Campari as a delaying tactic. And spotted an unannounced guest over Laurence’s shoulder.

  Tommy Carpa forced his way through a hedge at the yard’s boundary. The scratches his passage had left on his face along with the stray leaves in his hair and on his tattered suit should have lent him a comical appearance. But coupled with the wild, up-all-night look in his eyes—and the gun in his hand—they only made him come across as deranged. I set the pitcher down as he ran across the lawn, moving so quickly I began to think I was dreaming.

  Then Diana shrieked. At least I knew I was awake.

  Laurence wheeled toward the source of his wife’s distress as Tommy clouted him across the head with the gun. The move spared him the worst of the blow, which still gashed open his temple. Laurence braced himself against the table, then tore the ascot from his throat and pressed it to the wound. It was, so help me, one of the most dashing things I’d ever witnessed.

  Tommy loomed over him, breathing heavily. Not from physical exertion but the effort of holding himself in check. He wanted to kill Laurence, this second. “Tell it, Minot.”

  “Tell what, old man?”

  “The story of you and Ruby. Although you’ll probably louse it up. I seen your pictures. Story ain’t your strength.”

  The comment wounded Laurence more than the blow to the head. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  The last ember of logic died in Tommy’s eyes as he jabbed Laurence’s shoulder with the gun. “I loved her. Loved her. And you didn’t even know who she was.”