Design for Dying

by Renee Patrick

  Another poke with the pistol, harder this time. Laurence huffed out a breath in pain. I had to say something before Tommy became unhinged.

  “Tommy, calm down. The police are looking for you. They found your car at Addison Rice’s house.”

  “I’ll tell them why I was there. I was shadowing this bum. Have been since I heard about his little movie with Natalie.”

  “Movie?” Diana whispered.

  “The screen test you had her do. The one she pinned her hopes on. The one that meant everything to her.” Tommy hunkered down next to Laurence, pressing the gun into his ribs. “How was she?”

  “She was good.” Laurence cocked his head. “Wonderful, actually.”

  “You’re goddamned right she was wonderful. You know how I know? Because she was acting every second she was with you.” Tears welled in Tommy’s eyes but never sounded in his voice. “You didn’t need to put my girl in front of a camera. She lived her screen test.”

  Diana wept silently into her napkin.

  “You’re right,” Laurence said. “I’ve got much to atone for. I treated her shabbily. But I swear to you, I didn’t kill her.”

  “She fooled you. It was on camera that she fooled you, and that would end you. Is that what you and Beckett talked about last night?”

  Laurence stiffened. “I never said a word to him.”

  “I saw you. Moving like a bat out of hell to get away from him.”

  “Exactly.” Laurence shifted in his seat and, for some reason, began making his case to me. “I spotted Beckett at the party. So I went to find Addison.”

  “Beckett knew everything.” Tommy’s voice had no life in it, like a recording that was winding down. “He knew you’d shot the screen test. Knew you’d killed Ruby.”

  “I’m telling you, I didn’t.”

  “It all leads back to you, showman. Your catting around with her. Your harpy of a wife here hiring Beckett to follow you. Beckett pushed Ruby to the brink. But he’s out of the picture now. You’re the only one I’ve got left.”

  Left? Had Tommy just confessed to killing Beckett? Was he about to do the same to Laurence? Laurence clearly had the same thought, because he dropped the ascot and threw himself on Tommy’s mercy.

  “I’m sorry. For everything I’ve done. But I didn’t kill anyone.”

  “You heard him, Tommy,” I said in my most soothing tone. “Maybe you have the wrong man.”

  Tommy turned to me. Which allowed Diana to rise from her seat and point at her spouse. “You bastard! You lying bastard!” She slapped at Laurence’s head. Tommy spun back to the two of them. I exercised my only option. I tossed my glass onto the tiles surrounding the swimming pool. It shattered, the last of the Campari looking like a splash of blood.

  Tommy pivoted toward the sound. Laurence kicked a chair into his legs. Exhaustion had frayed Tommy’s nerves and his reflexes. He stumbled into the table, the pistol slipping from his hand and skidding toward the blue water of the pool.

  Diana’s high-heeled shoe stomped on it. She snatched up the gun and leveled it between Tommy and Laurence, and uncomfortably close to me. I tried to decide if it was better to have the gun in the hands of a vengeful gangster or a betrayed actress. An answer never came to me.

  “Baby, listen,” Laurence foolishly started, and it all went downhill from there.

  The gun swung toward him. Tommy tensed, ready to lunge for it. Diana backed toward the house so she could keep an eye on everyone. “Don’t either of you move!”

  “Diana, this is silly. Give me the gun.” Laurence used the fait accompli voice I’d heard him deploy on set. Away from the cameras, it didn’t pack the same punch.

  “You’ve cheated on me every day since our wedding, haven’t you?”

  “Yes. As you knew I would.”

  “But with Ruby? My friend?”

  “I didn’t know she was Ruby. I honestly didn’t. She certainly wasn’t your friend.”

  His words were only strengthening Diana’s resolve to pull the trigger. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t shoot you in the heart right now,” she said.

  The world-weariness in Laurence’s reply was breathtaking. “Because it’s too small a target, my dear. You’re not that good a shot.”

  “I’ve got a reason,” I said. “Anybody want to hear it?”

  No? No takers? Too bad. I was going to say it anyway.

  “Shooting someone in front of the police is a bad idea.”

  Diana looked at me with contempt, as well she should have. The trick had whiskers on it. Good thing it wasn’t a trick.

  Gene had dispatched two uniformed officers to the house’s side door to prevent Tommy from escaping. That meant Gene could devote all his attention to Diana. Knowing her, it was the smart approach. He stepped out of the house, arms wide. “Miss Galway. Put down the gun.”

  Diana hesitated, mainly to extend her big moment. The woman knew how to take direction. She set Tommy’s pistol on the table then collapsed in her chair with a sob.

  Tommy, to my amazement, allowed the cops to slap handcuffs on him without protest. Eyes now clear, he looked at Gene imploringly. “Talk to Minot. He was about to give it up. He killed my girl.”

  “Hardly,” Laurence said. “He confessed to killing Beckett himself.”

  Gene nodded at the uniforms, and they manhandled Tommy into the house. Tommy spoke over his shoulder with a chilling calm. “He’s the one you want, Morrow. Ask his wife.”

  There followed a moment of silence, broken only by the song of birds who’d skipped rehearsal and didn’t know their cues. Gene finally spoke. “I’m so glad we arranged to meet here, Miss Frost. I suggest we attend to Mr. Minot’s injury. Then someone can explain what in the hell is going on around here.”

  “Better call Publicity at Lodestar,” I told Diana as I pushed in my chair. “You apprehended a fugitive and only lost a highball glass. That definitely deserves a spread in Photoplay.”

  33

  BRIGHT AND EARLY Monday morning—all right, several cups of coffee into Monday afternoon—I walked into Edith’s office with a brown paper parcel under my arm. “Laundry service for Miss Head.”

  “It didn’t take you long to find a position that exploits your many talents.” Edith was a duotone symphony in a black dress with patch pockets, black and white buttons down the front, and a wide white belt. She opened the package and inspected the clothes I’d borrowed for the party, folded to the best of my ability.

  “I’d planned on delivering those anyway, so I was surprised to get your telephone call. What’s up?”

  “We should wait for Detective Morrow so I won’t have to go through this twice. Have you recovered from your weekend?”

  “Just about. A benefit to being temporarily without visible means of support is I slept well into this morning.”

  I angled toward an armchair. Edith rescued a slim leather-bound volume before I sat on it. “François Villon,” she said with her presumably flawless French accent.

  “And who’s he when he’s at home?”

  “A French poet of the fifteenth century. Surely you studied him in school.”

  “Nuns, as a rule, aren’t wild about French poetry. François merits a motion picture, I take it.”

  “He’s already had one, with William Farnum. Before your time, I should think. He’s getting a second. Preston is writing it. Why they’re wasting him on swordsmen and pageantry is beyond me. The man’s a born comic.”

  I laid the book atop a foot-high stack of similar tomes. “Are these about Villon, too?”

  “Histories of the period. To provide a feel for what ladies of the era were wearing.”

  I tested my biceps by hoisting one of the volumes into my lap. “How are you going to talk an actress into wearing one of these headpieces? They’re like deer antlers swaddled in linen.”

  The corners of Edith’s mouth briefly migrated upward. “I have the book open when the actress arrives for her fitting. We gush and coo over the design of the
distant past. I lament that the studio won’t let me embrace that look for fear modern audiences will reject actresses in such garb. Invariably the actress will screw up her face, turn to me and say—”

  “‘They’ll believe me in it.’ I’m starting to think you’re an evil genius. At least you don’t have to worry about anyone stealing a headdress to wear to Don the Beachcomber.”

  There was a knock at the door. Edith and I turned expecting Gene and instead found a heavy-lidded man with a broad forehead and an intense continental bearing. He resembled a dapper Peter Lorre, down to the slightly protruding eyes. “Forgive me, Edith,” he said, his precise diction severing the “H” from her name. “I don’t wish to intrude.”

  “It’s fine, Ernest. Can I help you?”

  The man—obviously Ernest Dryden, the designer Edith pegged as the heir apparent at Paramount—shrugged helplessly. “I’m looking for Travis.”

  “Have you tried the workroom? He has so many pieces to keep track of these days. Quite the full plate.”

  “Yes. An excellent suggestion.” Dryden smiled vacantly, bulging eyes looking through me to take in the walls of Edith’s office. Already plotting his use of the space when he claimed the throne. With a Prussian bow, he exited. I was disappointed he didn’t leave a visiting card.

  Edith, rattled by the encounter with Dryden, calmed herself by refolding the clothes I’d returned to her. “How goes the job hunt?”

  “Slow out of the blocks. Rumor has it Bullock’s is hiring for their children’s department. Wrestling sticky little darlings into velvet Christmas dresses. I’ve said one novena I get the job and two I don’t.”

  “The offer of a position here still stands. And the clock, as Mr. Dryden’s appearance portends, is ticking. Why you insist on looking this gift horse in the mouth is beyond me.”

  It was beyond me, too. “Can I ask … why do you want me to work here? Why are you being so kind to me?”

  “Ah. So at last you figured it out. Saw through all my plotting to the trap I’ve been laying for you.” Edith set the clothes aside and playfully swatted me. “There’s no mystery to it, Lillian. No hidden motive. We’ve been through a lot together these last few days, and you’ve proven yourself time and again. Plus I know something about how difficult it can be for a clear-eyed young woman to find a place in this city and this industry. You’re at a loose end and I’d like to help, that’s all. I don’t expect you to follow in my footsteps and turn wardrobe into your life’s work. I’m offering a job, so you can keep body and soul together until a situation more to your liking presents itself.” A barb of annoyance rose in her voice. “Honestly, you’d think you didn’t want to work for me. I cannot fathom why you haven’t said yes already.”

  And like that, I knew why I hadn’t said yes—and why I would say no. We had been through a lot together, Edith and I, and after that whirlwind I didn’t want to be one of dozens of underlings vying for crumbs of her attention. I wanted to be Edith’s peer, not her pin girl. To achieve that I’d need to create my own opportunities, the way she had when she’d braved the Bronson Gate in 1924 with a fistful of other people’s sketches.

  I was fumbling for an explanation, a means of saying I wanted to lasso my own future, when Gene let himself into the office. He looked surprisingly well rested and I told him so.

  “Cucumber slices on the eyes, like you suggested. All right, Miss Head. What have you unearthed that requires my presence and Miss Frost’s, apparently?”

  “Yes. Well.” Edith smoothed the patch pockets on her dress. “I’ve come into possession of Ruby Carroll’s screen test.”

  Any lingering traces of skepticism were wiped clean from Gene’s face. He looked like a young boy seeing his first pony. “The one directed by Laurence Minot?”

  “Yes. As soon as I confirmed the test’s existence, I contacted a friend at Lodestar and invented a reason to view it. I had to call in more than a few favors. But it seemed to me if the police and not a rival studio requested the footage, the film would never see the light of a projector. Particularly now that Mr. Minot may face legal difficulty.” She lowered her head. “Excessive on my part, I know. I apologize if I’ve overstepped my bounds.”

  After staring at her a moment, Gene raised a hand in benediction. “Considering your scheme worked, I’ll forgive your zeal. Have you watched the footage?”

  “Yes. Not much of use in it, but I thought you’d want to see it for yourself. And I assumed Lillian would be interested for personal reasons. I’ve taken the liberty of reserving a screening room.”

  “Of course you have,” Gene said, with a hint of admiration.

  * * *

  THE AIR IN the screening room was still redolent of the cigars and dreams snuffed out by the previous occupants. Edith stepped into the projection booth, leaving Gene and me to chat.

  “Anybody fold under questioning?” I asked.

  “Not yet. Carpa’s clammed up while Minot won’t stop talking. Wants to do a picture on how the police actually work. ‘A tough story about real men, what?’ I asked where the dancing numbers would go. He insists he’s innocent, like Tommy when he was still talking.”

  “Then who do you think did it?”

  “Carpa. Straight down the line. He killed Ruby in a jealous rage. Beckett held it over his head until Carpa got the drop on him. I can tell from your face you don’t agree.”

  “No, it’s not that. I just don’t understand why Tommy would then want to kill Laurence.”

  Gene didn’t squirm. He was a real man, after all. “He blames Minot for Ruby’s situation. Carpa genuinely loved the girl and harbors a lot of guilt over what he did.”

  The explanation seemed a bit … psychological, for both Tommy and Gene. Far be it from me to poke holes in it when I was more concerned about somebody poking holes in me. “Then you think Tommy took that shot outside my place?”

  “Stands to reason. You were the last person to talk to Beckett before he died. He could have named his killer.” Gene smiled. “But with Tommy in custody, you can ride the streetcars freely to your many job interviews.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  Edith returned to the screening room. “All set. Shall we?” As the lights went down, she squeezed my hand.

  * * *

  THE FILM LEADER blitzed past, a hazy countdown of numbers. Then a glimpse of the clapperboard with its chalk code, shadows of assorted technicians … and standing in the midst of the chaos, Ruby. Never more alive. Knowing all this activity was about her. Feeding on it. Her huge brown eyes open wide and peering to her left, listening to someone with the faintest of smiles on her Cupid’s bow lips. Conspiring from the first shot. Her eyebrows were full, to compete with the pile of dark hair atop her head.

  I would never get used to Ruby as a brunette. She’d always be a blonde to me. But then I wasn’t looking at Ruby. It was Natalie wearing a black beaded gown, the Lodestar wardrobe department’s hasty concession to period dress. She nodded and the stone at her throat bobbed. She placed a hand over it self-consciously, addressing an off-screen interlocutor.

  “No, it’s my own piece,” she said of the necklace. “For good luck. I hope this is acceptable.” Natalie’s voice was Ruby’s but huskier, a Slavic accent creeping in around the consonants, flattening the vowels. It seemed effortless and unforced, a manner of speech she’d grown up hearing and could replicate without thinking.

  Goddamned if she didn’t look and sound like a princess. No wonder half the town fell for her.

  A whiskey-thick laugh from off-camera. Laurence Minot, his own voice muffled. “Not a problem, my dear. It suits our character. Do you think you’ll need luck? Have you been in front of a camera before?”

  “I am only alive in front of them.” Her eyes flicked to the lens, and for a moment I couldn’t move, think, or breathe.

  Hey there, mermaid. Good to see you again.

  Nice to see you, too, Ruby.

  * * *

  AN ABRUPT CUT and Ruby was downstage,
slinking toward the camera. Laurence offered encouragement and threw out questions to put his leading lady at ease. What do you like most about America? Ice cream. What do you miss about your homeland? Dreaming of coming to this country. And goulash. I put paprika in your Irish stew, but it is not the same. Once she forgot a word and chided herself in Hungarian. Laurence roared, clearly dazzled by her.

  So was I. I couldn’t see Ruby anymore. I could only see Natalie. An exotic presence both more distant and far warmer than Ruby had ever been. Had I made her acquaintance onscreen, I would have gladly followed her anywhere.

  “Very well, Miss Szabo.” Laurence sounded louder; I could picture him leaning forward, straining to get closer. “Are you ready?”

  Another cut, and now Ruby was in the dead center of the frame, gaze leveled at a point to the right of the camera’s lens. The shot showcased her good side. Never had she looked more beautiful.

  “You think simply because you are a member of the court you may speak to me in this fashion. You believe by virtue of being born of the right parents you are free to move through this world however you see fit. But there are other laws a man must obey, Monsieur LeFevre. Rules a true gentleman need not be taught.”

  I knew the lines. I knew them. Ruby had been given the same dreadful dialogue foisted on me during my Lodestar screen test, back when we had first met. I’d interpreted the material in a superficial way, alternating between rage and tears. But Ruby played it coyly, amused by the effrontery of the young nobleman in the scene. She paused and moved her eyes up and down this phantom partner, undressing him as she dressed him down.

  “As a lady, I am limited in how I can respond. The chancellor shall hear of your impertinence. When we meet again, perhaps you will understand your station—and mine—somewhat better.” She flicked open an invisible fan and turned away, waving at someone on the other side of an imagined ballroom.

  Laurence yelled “Cut!” and Natalie cackled. It was an earthy laugh, Ruby’s laugh, and she pointed toward the camera about to give some technician hell.