by Helen Jacey
Leave your kids, you may never see them again.
The movie would be a tearjerker and a huge hit.
After I said goodbye to Sonia, I rang Martell from a payphone at Hal’s Diner. I assumed she’d be away like the rest of her set, skiing somewhere ‘cold, white and expensive’, as Alberta had put it. But, amazingly, Martell was in and couldn’t hide the fact she was pleased to hear from me. Normally, she called me. She would put in a weekly call to Barney, bugging him about my progress on the Tatiana Spark case.
‘Happy holidays. It’s your favorite detective.’
‘So, you’ve got news?’ Martell didn’t beat about the bush.
I asked if I could pay her a visit. She invited me directly over.
I had to play it carefully. Martell was a deal-maker, the ultimate strategist, and pushy as hell. If I wasn’t careful, she’d get what she wanted and I’d come out with nothing. Assuming she knew Linda Hunter, she could take me to the funeral, but only if I gave her something valuable in return.
And thanks to the tragic twist of events in Vienna, I had just the thing she was most desperate for.
Closure.
The marble statue of Venus was decapitated, a clean break to the neck. Her head lolled by the plinth below, eyes staring morosely into the velvety emerald turf.
‘I don’t know what I was thinking, giving the boys baseball bats. Still, live and learn. They’ve gone back to Daddykins.’ Martell surveyed the damage, hands on hips. She turned to me. ‘He’s far too strict with them, so when they come here, they just go wild.’ She shuddered. ‘Thank heavens Phyllis was here. She is the only one they listen too.’
Phyllis, Martell’s longstanding housekeeper, was at the far end of the garden, setting out drinks on a table with a bright white cloth. She moved with the over-careful movements of the exhausted. I wondered if she had been deprived of Christmas with her own family to look after Martell’s brats.
Her sons being here meant that Martell’s ex-hubby must have finally caved in. Having deserted a bad marriage as a banker’s housewife in Pasadena, Martell had fled to Hollywood to pursue a career as a screenwriter. Her ex had punished her by depriving her of access to her sons for many years.
And as a divorcee, Martell hadn’t wasted one second of her freedom. Compensation for her maternal loss was a stellar movie career, churning out slushy romances. And when her sister died, giving her charge of her effervescent niece, Pammie, Martell found a daughter figure she could indulge.
Her magnificent residence was Perpetua, a Beverly Hills villa. I’d only visited a few times, but each time the grounds seemed more magical.
A headless Venus couldn’t ruin the charm of the place for me.
‘I hope you’ve come bearing good tidings. It is Christmas, after all. Come have a drink.’ she said.
I noticed how her auburn hair was a shade lighter, but still as glossy, with thick curls tied up with a simple silk bow, giving her a girlish look. She was immaculate, as always, in a pale green silk dress and suede shoes in exactly the same shade. She seemed to co-ordinate with the clump of pampas grass swaying in the distance behind her.
She escorted me to the patio where Phyllis had been moments ago. She had left a silver tray with two crystal goblets and a vintage white wine in a chiller, and a fluffy shawl neatly folded over one of the seats. It was a perfect Californian winter’s day, surprisingly warm and balmy, with a slight breeze.
‘How’s Pammie?’
‘Wonderful! She’s started acting classes. Naturally talented, but I thought some training wouldn’t hurt.’
Lucky Pammie, having an aunt who could open doors with a snap of her fingers.
All those broke girls from the Midwest, arriving on buses with dreams in their hearts, and cents in their wallets, who didn’t have a relative with connections. They risked ending up prey to men who expected sex in return for a helping hand up the ladder.
But the rungs were rotten, and the hand was already groping somebody else’s ass.
We sat down. Martell poured two generous glasses of wine and handed me one. ‘So hit me with it.’
‘Sophia Spark was located in Vienna. The bad news—she’s dead.’
Martell very carefully put her wine down. She was not one for spontaneous outbursts and the cogs were already whirring. ‘Oh. How did she die?’
I nodded. ‘Pneumonia.’
‘Pneumonia? How awful.’ Martell had the decency to try to sound rueful and pull a sorry face. Maybe some part of her did care, for a second. But she couldn’t help the way she was wired. Martell always came first, what Martell wanted a close second, and coming up third, Martell getting the best out of any situation. Spending time thinking about others was a waste of precious Martell time.
Sophia’s death was the best ending from Martell’s point of view and knowing about it also meant the brakes were off the movie. Martell would be getting on the line to producer Lyle Vadnay as soon as I left.
‘To think what a life she could have had. Oh! The tragedy. I can’t bear it.’ It was a good performance, amusing in its own way. Martell sipped her wine. ‘Are you absolutely certain?’
‘It’s exceedingly likely. And no kids.’
‘None?’
‘Apparently not.’
‘So, after the holidays, you’ll be notifying the trustees?’
I lit a cigarette. ‘Possibly.’
This annoyed her, but she tried to hide it. ‘But you said you’re certain? Why wait?’
I exhaled a long plume, hoping to achieve a blasé effect. ‘I figure I should probably wait for my source to return. She may get a copy of the death certificate, something more conclusive to show them.’
A flash of irritation in her eyes. ‘And when will that be?’
I shrugged. ‘She’s on a real big assignment. She’s following troop demobilization for a major magazine feature.’ A lie, but Martell didn’t know.
‘You know, Elvira, I have been very patient. This investigation has taken you almost two months. I have no idea why you didn’t just jump on a plane and go there yourself. I’m sure with your skills, and trust’s resources, you could have found this out far sooner.’
Clever move. Imply I’ve been incompetent and not running on all cylinders, to manipulate me into doing her bidding now. She was touching a nerve because I actually did feel guilty that I couldn’t go to Europe, and I hadn’t wanted to waste Tatiana’s funds doing nothing.
Don’t let her get to you!
I reminded myself the trustees wanted to honor a dead woman’s wishes to provide for her child and, possibly, grandchildren. The movie was not their priority, only Martell’s. She knew it, but that wouldn’t stop her bullying like this. Life had taught me one thing: ruthless bullies won’t stop with any dirty tactics until they’re forced.
I met her eyes, picking up my glass. ‘I could tell them, for sure. But we both know it would be wrong to give unconfirmed information. So it makes sense to wait for my reporter pal to get back with facts and, let’s hope, proof of death.’
‘You don’t look like a checkbox kind of girl.’
‘I just want to do things properly.’
Martell’s eyes glinted coldly. I was, until she got her way, Against Her.
‘I suppose you’re on a retainer? The longer this whole darned business takes, the more it benefits you?’
Ouch! Martell had pulled another low-down move. I bristled. ‘That’s irrelevant. I want this done as much as anyone else involved. But I need to be professional. That means getting verification.’
It was time to make my play.
I swallowed some more wine. Delicious and emboldening, the way wine should be. ‘I appreciate the picture depends on this notification, and you’re kind of stymied until then. Professionally, I mean.’
‘Me? Baloney! I’m positively drowning in offers of work. But this movie is the one I feel a sense of duty towards. Just like you.’
She was shameless. Making out she was doing the dead Tatia
na a favor by making the movie.
‘Well, I guess the odds are heavily against Sophia turning up alive. So maybe I could alert the trustees.’
Her perfectly plucked brows raised like little arches. She could smell victory, but she wasn’t going to let her guard down. ‘My sentiments exactly. I really think they deserve that.’
‘You know Linda Hunter?’
‘The Linda Hunter? As in Ronald Hunter’s wife—I mean…widow? Rest in peace. How dreadful is that news?’
I nodded. ‘Know her well?’
‘She had a bit part in one of my pictures. She’s not exactly in my inner circle, but we go to some of the same parties. I left a condolence card as soon as I heard. Why?’
‘Know anyone who would want to kill Ronald Hunter?’
Martell gasped, but looked amused. ‘Do I what? Good heavens, no! What a question!’
‘So, happily married?’
‘What on earth are you getting at? You think Linda Hunter did it? Preposterous.’ Martell studied me. ‘You’re investigating, aren’t you?’
‘I’m not at liberty to say.’
‘Gee, aren’t you full of surprises today!’
The risk of talking to Martell suddenly hit me. If she even casually mentioned to anyone the tasty morsel that she knew the defense’s PI, then it might not take too long for the creep Flannery to learn about some Elvira Slate, digging around for the defense.
‘You’re working for the defense, of course.’ I didn’t indicate yes or no.
Martell refilled our glasses. ‘Aren’t they holding some woman?’
The press hadn’t mentioned a woman. The papers had said “suspect”. Martell, as usual, had inside information somehow. I mulled. There was a good chance Detective Flannery had informed Linda about Dolly. He would have quizzed her on what she knew.
And maybe a distraught Linda had confided in someone Martell knew.
‘Could be. You think Linda Hunter has a lover on the side?’
‘How on earth did you get this impression?’
‘Does it matter?’ Sonia might want to close that avenue down, but I was itching to know.
Martell gave a superior smile. ‘Curiosity killed the cat. If she is, she is. I have no idea, to be frank.’
‘What’s she like?’
‘To be perfectly honest, sweet, but dull. And can’t act for toffee. Most girls who want to make it cotton on fast that a pretty face isn’t enough. An actor is born with the gift, or they are not. I don’t think Linda ever worked that out. Problem of being born into money.’
‘What about him? Hunter?’
‘I don’t like to speak ill of the dead.’
‘But you met him?
‘Uh-huh. Put it this way, we didn’t have a lot to say to each other. I’m not his kind of woman.’
What did she mean exactly? That she was too old? Too threatening? I couldn’t say that to her. ‘Like…intelligent?’ I suggested.
‘A man like Hunter wants someone on his arm to laugh at his jokes. I got divorced to get away from all that.’
I had to laugh. ‘So will you go to the funeral?’
‘The reception, afterwards. Everyone will be there, if they aren’t away. Why?’
‘Think I could tag along? As your pal, or something? A great storyteller like you could easily invent a reason.’
She leaned back. ‘Oh, you’re in a very nosey and demanding mood. You want my help, you gotta spill, honey. Let’s not pretend you’re not working for the defense.’
Our eyes locked. Now for the bait. I leaned forward, enticingly. ‘How about I tell the trustees on 2nd January that Sophia Spark is dead and my evidence is on its way back from Vienna? Then the screenplay can be finished with their blessing and you don’t have to wait for any certificates. You take me to the funeral, and don’t say a word to anybody about why you think I want to be there, and that’s what I’ll say to the trustees.’
Martell mirrored my position, looking straight into my eyes. ‘Looks like you got yourself a deal.’
That was quick.
Martell held out her hand and we shook. Her skin felt as soft as silk.
I added, ‘This stays between us. I wouldn’t want to have to tell the trustees I got some new information, meaning I can’t guarantee Sophia is dead. That I have to go to Vienna after all, and figure it out for myself. Which could take a long time.’
Martell swallowed a laugh. She picked up the cashmere shawl that Phyllis had left over the back of the chair and pulled it around her shoulders. ‘You’ve toughened up. I remember the first time you came here, just a little mouse. And you look better, too. More color in your cheeks, more flesh on the bones.’
Enough flattery. I needed to pin her down. I said, ‘I want a guarantee.’
‘Honey, you’re rock solid from where I’m sitting. I just want to make the movie. Why on earth would I tell Linda Hunter or anybody else I’m helping the defense? Of course I won’t breathe a word.’ She looked at me. ‘I’m sure I can come up with some persona for you.’
‘Sounds good.’
‘Besides, knowing you’re snooping will make a dull affair more interesting. Maybe you will catch a rat amongst the lilies.’
‘Maybe. But unlikely.’
‘So now we’re in cahoots, who’s the woman, the suspect?’
‘A nobody.’ I shrugged it off.
Martell mused. ‘A nobody, huh? No surprise. Who men marry and who men like to have fun with aren’t always the same type of girl, in my experience.’
I flinched at her words, thinking immediately of Lauder.
‘Wouldn’t know. Never been married, never been duped. And I intend to keep it that way.’ I smiled, standing up.
Martell also stood up. She escorted me back towards the French doors that led inside.
In her lobby, she said she’d call as soon as she knew the funeral date. It was likely to be soon. She looked down at my modest attire. ‘Be sure to look the part.’
I assured her I’d dress to impress, but I could use a heavily veiled hat if she had one. She said she had just the thing.
20
‘What do you want?’ It was a woman’s voice with a strong accent. European, but I couldn’t place it exactly.
I stood on front porch of the shabby boarding house, looking around for the source of the voice.
A woman stood just below me. She must have come from a side entrance at ground level. The matronly type, in her fifties, her graying blonde hair tied back in a scarf. A white pin-tucked apron covered her ample bosom. Her sleeves were rolled up, her hands covered in flour. Her eyes were a clear and bright blue, her cheekbones wide and high.
Standing on some bleak Scandinavian hinterland, she wouldn’t be out of place. This had to be the landlady, Mrs. Olsen.
I told her I was a friend of Dolly Perkins. Was she Mrs. Olsen?
‘Yes, but Dolly is not here. You want to leave a message?’
Dolly was still unnamed by the press. Maybe Mrs. Olsen had no idea she was involved.
I stomped back down the wooden steps. One cracked, a rotten one. The boarding house was a large old house in Compton, and it had taken me a while to find. There were signs of female occupancy in each window on the upper two floors. Delicate underclothes drying on makeshift lines, little pots of miniature roses, even a mannequin with fabric draped over it.
If I’d come to stay at a down-at-heel place like this when I first got to LA, rather than the upmarket Miracle Mile, would my destiny have taken a different route?
No June, no Lauder, no Beatty.
No Elvira Slate.
But I’d never have stayed in a low-rent dive. I had been hell-bent on a glamorous life, despite my dwindling funds. And with no intention of getting a job, ill-gotten gains were on the horizon.
What life was teaching me fast was that delusions of grandeur have a habit of biting you in the ass. ‘Know when she’s back?’ I said.
She shook her head. Plumes of flour danced into the air fro
m her bosom.
I pulled a face. ‘Dang! Dolly said she’d lend me a gown for a do tonight. I’m here to collect. Can I go to her room?’
The hooded eyes narrowed. ‘You are musician?’
‘Yeah. I play the drums.’ I said, for no good reason at all.
What?Are you crazy? The drums?
She concealed a smile. ‘The singers, I do not mind. Dolly sings like angel. A drummer? Never come here if you need a room.’
‘Oh, I’m in no need of lodgings, ma’am.’ The fact she was warming up to me was an advantage. ‘Could I just grab the frock?’
Mrs. Olsen frowned. ‘I don’t know.’
‘You can trust me. You know, Dolly told me she’s behind on the rent, in a dry spot. Say I give you last week’s rent. That proves I’m legit, right?’
Total long shot.
‘You want to pay her rent?’
‘Sure. Why not? Dolly’s a pal. She can pay me back when she’s flush. Said her fella’s got plenty of money.’
‘I do not know about that. No men allowed here.’
