Hoodwink

by Rhonda Roberts

  I grimaced down at the tattoo. How could anyone let that be put on their chest? It repulsed me and, from the way Bloom was avoiding looking down, he felt the same way.

  ‘From what I can find out, this tattoo was used only by certain high priests,’ said Eugene. ‘Ones who’d been initiated into the darker rituals.’

  ‘And …?’

  ‘The story I was told was that once the tattoos were on the body, they fed off your life force. So you had to be very powerful, or they could drain you to death. But it also gave great power …’

  ‘Let me guess … Because you could kill people just by taking off your shirt?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Eugene, is this Mayan?’ I said.

  He nodded. ‘It could be.’

  ‘Shelby, does this tattoo have anything to do with Crimson Dawn? Or Ceiba House?’

  Bloom shrugged. ‘It would seem so, but I don’t know how … And neither does Susan.’

  ‘So where does that leave us?’ I said.

  ‘Confused as hell,’ said Bloom. ‘Maybe Earl had a nervous breakdown after all. He may not have committed suicide … but he wasn’t sane to have done this.’

  Farnsworth agreed. ‘Imagine the pain Mr Curtis would’ve had to go through to get all this work done in just a few days.’

  I studied the body.

  ‘You’re wrong, Bloom,’ I said. ‘This clue tells us something very specific indeed. Earl knew someone was after him. That he was in danger.’

  I nodded to myself. ‘Earl Curtis knew he was about to be killed.’

  PART TWO

  LOS ANGELES, 1939

  10

  VENICE, CALIFORNIA

  The acres of canals at the back of Venice Beach were built by an eccentric millionaire in the early 1900s. He drained the marshes to create his own seaside resort, a fantasy remake of the famous Italian city complete with gracefully arched bridges and fancy gondolas. This Californian Venice had been a fashionable district once, but when the Depression followed the Wall Street crash of 1929, no one could afford the upkeep on the canal system and the whole area slid into a seedy decline.

  Phyllis Pettigrew lived on Sherman Canal.

  I stashed the rest of my luggage in the derelict house I’d used as my drop-off point but kept the tan suitcase with me. I picked my way along the cracked and broken pathway running next to the canal; the wall sloping down to the mud was almost ready to collapse.

  It was low tide and the slimy bottom of the canal was uncovered. It stank. Glancing towards the beach and the fading sunset I saw a forest of oil derricks, black against the peachy sky. That accounted for the film of oil glistening on top of the stinking mud.

  The houses on either side of Sherman Canal had been through hard times; now most of them needed a good paint and a couple of weeks with a repair team. The gardens no longer had flowers in them either; every square inch of viable soil was taken up by vegetables: cabbages, carrots, peas … with pumpkin vines climbing the fence.

  A flock of ducks rushed at me along the cracked pathway, quacking and honking. They pecked around my feet and waited expectantly. My guess was they were fed scraps for their eggs and then occasionally culled for Sunday dinner.

  As I climbed the stairs to Phyllis’ front porch, the kids in the yard on my right were screaming blue-murder. There were three of them, all under school age. They were playing cowboys and Indians with homemade bows and arrows, a stick for a rifle and dirty feathers courtesy of the ducks. The smallest boy was tied to the railing of their front porch by a sheet they’d pinched off their mother’s clothesline. A tiny dog, that was really just a miniature floor mop on legs, supplied barks and growls as additional soundtrack to their battle.

  The rest of the row was deserted; there was nothing to even indicate anyone else lived here. From the house on the left all I could hear was the sound of a cat meowing. That was it … no radio, no voices, nothing.

  Everyone who was lucky enough to have a job was still working.

  I knocked at the door; there was paint peeling off it and the hinges didn’t sit right. There was the sound of a heavy trudge and then the door jerked open.

  Phyllis Pettigrew was a small, slim blonde wearing a heavy cast, which covered her shoulder and chest and kept her arm out at a right angle from her torso. There were heavy black circles under her cedar-brown eyes and a half-finished cigarette hanging between her too-pale lips.

  Phyllis had been Earl Curtis’ personal secretary since 1933.

  Two days ago, she’d been hurt in an accident at the studio. A heavy light had fallen on her arm and she’d been taken to hospital.

  She scowled at me then down at my suitcase. ‘I’m not buying anything.’ Then started to slam the door in my face.

  I stuck my foot in the gap and kept it open.

  Phyllis was not only in pain, she was furious that the studio, and Earl in particular, wouldn’t pay her hospital bills. He’d even refused to give her more time off.

  ‘I’m not here to sell you anything, Miss Pettigrew … I want to buy something.’

  Phyllis was riled enough to be of use but was not a suspect. Tomorrow, she was due to give up on the movie business and return to Cleveland to live with her parents.

  ‘I work for The New York Torch.’ I flipped open a fake identity card.

  She checked it, confused.

  ‘I want to do a special piece on Earl Curtis and I need your help to get onto the set with him.’

  Phyllis tried to slam the door again, but I used my thigh to keep it open.

  ‘Did I mention I want to do an exposé on Mr Curtis’ less savoury habits?’

  Her eyes lit up. Yes, Phyllis was definitely in the mood for revenge.

  Then she scowled again. ‘No. You’ll have to find someone else.’

  ‘Maybe this might change your mind?’

  I lifted the tan case onto my bent knee and snapped open the clips. Then swung it around to face her.

  Phyllis gasped.

  There was fifty thousand dollars lined up in that suitcase. Here and now, it was a fortune to last a lifetime.

  11

  SELZNICK INTERNATIONAL

  PICTURES

  I sucked in a clean deep breath as I drove — now this Los Angeles I could live with.

  It still had the tall rows of waving palm trees but was really only a cluster of townships spread across the bottom of the LA basin, surrounded by new real estate tracts developed from old ranch land and interspersed with forested countryside.

  The freeways weren’t even dreamt of yet … People still rode horses here and Sunset Boulevard had a bridle path running down the middle of it that stretched from Beverly Hills to the ocean!

  A slender tower of smoke rose above the ocean end of the Santa Monica Mountains. I’d been watching it all the way from Phyllis’ house in Venice. The wildfire had emerged from deep in the mountains just north of Malibu and had been whipped into a furore by unseasonably strong winds.

  I had four days before the murderer would park Earl’s empty car in the path of that blaze and his victim would begin his long journey to become a Hollywood legend.

  Keeping one hand on the wheel, I adjusted my dark glasses more firmly on the bridge of my nose, then popped another handful of aspirin into my mouth and crunched. The portal had given me one hell of a headache this time. Or maybe it was the lack of sleep. Bloom had kept his team of assistants working around the clock and put a deep pool of money at my disposal …

  But two days is only two days.

  The team didn’t have time to do much more than put together the basics: cash, maps, clothes, luggage, that kind of thing. That and compile details on the list of people I’d have to interact with. A list that hopefully contained the killer’s name.

  Despite my best efforts I still had no idea who to start watching … No idea who both wanted to kill Earl and had the opportunity to put his body in that cement.

  I’d timed my arrival so that I had the four days befor
e he went missing to identify the murderer, with one day on the other side to check any loose ends. If worst came to worst I’d stake out the sound stage on the last night and wait for Earl to be brought in for disposal.

  But even that had its drawbacks.

  If Earl had been killed by hired hit men then a whole other chase could open up, one I had no time to pursue.

  So the safest way was to do some preliminary work, identify who could be the murderer and confirm my hypothesis on the night. With only five days and no return trips it was the best I could do.

  Anxiety boiled in my stomach like I was trying to cook eggs the hard way … This had to work, there were too many people depending on it: Troy, Susan, me … even the NTA.

  Flipping the top off the aspirin bottle with my thumb, I poured in another mouthful and crunched.

  So much for breakfast.

  Once I hit Culver City I turned right off Washington Boulevard and into Ince. There was an empty parking space opposite the studio but I stalled Phyllis’ green Ford twice trying to get in. The clutch was sticky.

  Damn! Car troubles had followed me across time …

  From this angle the studio seemed pretty much the same as when I’d been here with Bloom, only now it was home to Selznick International Pictures.

  David O. Selznick, Hollywood’s hotshot producer, had leased the place in 1935 from RKO to get away from his father-in-law, Louis B. Mayer. Mayer was the head of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, the biggest studio in Hollywood and just a brisk walk down Washington Boulevard from here. Selznick was determined to show everyone, and L. B. Mayer in particular, that he was the future of this town.

  Selznick’s studio had the same trademark Administration Building running along Washington Boulevard at the front of the lot. The grandiose, two-storey plantation house, white with green shuttered windows, sat at the back of a precisely manicured front lawn. It had a peaked roof and the middle third was faced with tall stately columns that created a porch area two storeys high.

  The front lot was a rough rectangle with the two long sides formed by Ince Boulevard and Van Buren Place. The sound stages all sat behind the showy Administration Building and to the rear was the backlot, known as the Back Forty, which held all the exterior sets.

  Yep, from this angle not much seemed to have changed at all. Well that suited me — the fewer surprises the better!

  I stepped through Gate Two and made it as far as the guard box.

  A red-haired woman, in full war paint, was haranguing the guard while her friend looked on, bored.

  ‘I’ve told you three times already, you dolt,’ she said petulantly. ‘My agent has set up a private meeting for me with Mr Selznick!’

  The uniformed guard, a middle-aged man with apple-red cheeks and a weight problem, said impatiently, ‘But you’re not on the list.’

  She stomped her elegantly heeled foot. ‘I’m not leaving until you check.’

  ‘All right, all right, lady, I’ll ring.’ The peeved guard retired to his booth and started dialling.

  The two women glared around, searching for another place to vent and found me.

  As one, they started with my shoes and worked their way up. The would-be actress cupped her hand, whispering into her friend’s ear. They both sniggered.

  It was like high school again …

  I touched my hair. It was pulled back into a bun under a grey felt cloche hat. I wore a plain blue suit and white gloves, and carried a leather satchel.

  Bloom’s stylist had tried to get me to wear a repulsive maroon bonnet thing with a net, but I’d got the feeling he was trying to dress me like someone in a movie he liked, whereas I just wanted to fit in.

  The impatient actress was dressed to kill in a curve-hugging red skirt suit with black piping and matching black gloves, shoes, handbag and a red Peter Pan hat with a black feather. Her friend wore a similar outfit in green and white, again every item matching exactly.

  Most of the men I’d driven past on the way over here wore suits, new or shabby, but still suits. That or uniforms. Uniforms to clean the streets … uniforms to deliver goods … uniforms to drive trucks.

  Okay, now I got the picture … in 1939 everything had to match.

  The guard clomped back, his expression severe. ‘Sorry, ma’am, but no one’s heard of you. Or your agent. You have to leave.’ He jerked his capped head towards Ince Boulevard, inferring she’d better hit the road and fast.

  My fashion critic and her friend gave me another derogatory once-over, as though to say, ‘You’ll never get in!’ then stuck their noses in the air and stalked off.

  Blast Bloom’s stylist!

  The guard watched them for a moment, then said, ‘Ma’am, can I help you?’ He was fraught but making an effort at politeness.

  ‘I’m Kay Dupree. I’m definitely on the list.’ I’d gone for a soft New York accent to fit my New York Torch cover.

  The guard swung the clipboard back up from under his arm and started checking down the list pinned to the front. He gave me an irritated glance. ‘No, it’s not here.’

  ‘I’m replacing Phyllis Pettigrew … Mrs Brindlestern should’ve rung you about it.’

  Those two names worked magic: he went back to the list and found that Phyllis’ name had been crossed out and mine hand-printed next to it.

  He apologised and said, ‘Gee, ma’am, I hope Miss Pettigrew gets better soon.’

  ‘Yes, we all do,’ I said, just wanting to get past him.

  ‘You know, there have been too many accidents around here lately.’

  The way he said that made my ears prick up. ‘Why’s that?’

  The guard cast a speaking glance over his shoulder.

  Beyond, the studio was a dusty, swirling mass of heavy machinery, horses and extras in Civil War uniforms.

  ‘Everyone’s working too hard, ma’am, people slip up. But …’ The guard gazed down at Phyllis’ name on the list and tapped it pensively with his fingertip. ‘You just be careful, ma’am. Like I said, there have been too many accidents of late.’

  I scanned his earnest expression.

  Phyllis told me she’d been on set when the heavy light came crashing down from the sound-stage ceiling. Any further to the left and it would’ve killed her.

  ‘Was there something suspicious about Phyllis’ accident?’ I insisted.

  His eyes bulged. ‘No, ma’am, I’m not saying nothing like that …’

  He was rattled.

  ‘It’s just crazy here at the moment, ma’am … You’d better hurry in.’ He tried to wave me through the gate like a charging bull he was attempting to deflect. ‘Mr Curtis is in Bungalow V. He’s already rung me to see if Phyllis had arrived yet and he’s not happy. So you’d better run.’

  I eyed the guard’s red, squirming face but I had yet to deal with Earl …

  So I plunged into the teeming chaos beyond the guard box.

  Trucks zipped backwards and forwards loaded with construction supplies and they refused to give way to the dodging forklifts carrying crates and barrels. The space in between was wedged open with hundreds of extras in grey Confederate uniforms trying to grab a quick smoke and four very cranky horses being led off a trailer.

  Now I understood how Earl had managed to go missing here. A busload could’ve gone along with him.

  As I neared the horse trailer, I caught sight of a chestnut-haired actor in an expensive dark grey suit sitting on the crate opposite.

  I came to a halt. I was guessing he was an actor, though I didn’t recognise him.

  He was stunning … the face and body of a warrior archangel about to gird his loins for battle … strong cheekbones and jaw, his hair streaked into white-gold in places.

  But then I saw his eyes. They were slanted, feline even, and trimmed with thick black eyelashes …

  Jade-green tiger’s eyes blazing out of a honey-tanned face.

  But it was his expression that riveted me, held me still. It reminded me too much of Troy …

  Cut adrift
, sinking fast and no land in sight.

  Shelby Bloom had brought Troy with him to Union Square to see me off. We’d said goodbye in the park opposite the NTA. Brigham wouldn’t even let them in the building.

  Troy had watched me leave like I was his last hope.

  But Jade-eyes had no hope.

  I’m not sure why I knew that … It wasn’t his expression or his body language.

  I just know despair when I see it.

  He was watching a handful of Confederate extras. They’d squatted in a circle so they could use the same match to light their cigarettes.

  Despite the mechanised activity swirling around them, the extras looked like they’d stepped out of an American history book. Their uniforms were ragged and well-worn, they had rifles slung over their backs and two had swords at their sides. Even their faces were made up to look haggard with exhaustion, or maybe that was real …

  But what was Jade-eyes seeing in them to make him so … bereft?

  Next to me, the jeans-clad wranglers had finally managed to get the first cranky horse, an old grey gelding, down the trailer ramp. While one young wrangler held him by the reins, the other three men went back for the rest of the horses.

  A speeding truck, cutting off a forklift, veered straight for the grey gelding, brushing the horse’s flanks as it passed. Frenzied, the gelding reared, knocking the young wrangler off his feet. The boy grabbed for the reins and it bared its long yellow teeth. He tried again and caught them but the grey horse, now incensed, lashed out with both iron-clad hind hooves.

  My heart began to pound in horror.

  It was aiming for the head of one of the Confederate extras squatting in the smoking circle.

  I couldn’t stand by and watch that man die …

  But I wasn’t allowed to intervene!

  I went rigid, fighting for control …

  But couldn’t stop myself!

  I wasn’t close enough to the horse to grab it so I dived on the extra, knocking him face-first, flat to the ground. I braced myself for the rush of the horse’s hooves kicking over my back, huddling closer to the extra and the ground.