“I’ll take a rain check on the spin the bottle,” said Evelyn at the door. “Thanks for the fun.”
“She really digs you. You know that, right?” asked Mickey once we’d closed the door.
“She’s harmless. It’s just a game. I don’t mind.”
“Don’t lead her on, Ellie.”
“Was I doing that? I’ll be more careful.”
“Have you ever kissed a girl?” he asked.
“Don’t be silly.”
“Neither have I,” he said.
SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 1962
A lazy Sunday morning. It was a little after eleven, and Mickey and I were sipping our coffee and crunching some toast when a knock came at the door.
“I’ll get it, dear,” he said, making me smile.
Now that we were roommates, I was seeing a new side to him. He was an adorable sweetheart when he wasn’t lying to your face. Poor thing. He’d had such a hard time of it. All his life.
He rose from the table and shuffled to answer the door.
“Hi. Is Ellie in?”
“Bobby Renfro?” said Mickey.
“The one and only. No autographs. Is Ellie in?”
“What are you doing here?” I asked, appearing behind Mickey.
“I came to find you,” he said, trying to look past my little friend who stood between us. “I haven’t been able to get you out of my mind since I met you.” Then he addressed Mickey. “Do you mind?”
Mickey retreated into the room.
“How did you find me?”
Bobby mugged confusion, as if I should simply be thrilled that he’d chosen me out of all the girls in the world to fall for. Then he smiled, and I could see why he was a movie star, even if he no longer passed for a teenager. He had real charm when he decided to flip the switch.
“I ran into Tony, and he said you were staying here for a few days. Nice guy, that Tony.”
“Where did you see him?”
“At the Richfield station on Van Ness. Yesterday. Around noon.”
“What do you want, Bobby?”
“You treated me and Rockin’ Johnny to drinks and burgers. I thought I could return the favor. A fancy dinner and night on the town. Not Barney’s Beanery.”
“Is Rockin’ Johnny coming along?”
Bobby chuckled. “No. Just you and me.”
I glanced at Mickey. “I’m not sure I’m free.”
“Just say yes,” he said from across the room. “If you don’t go, I will.”
I telephoned Charlie Reese collect. His wife answered and was about to refuse the charges. Good thing Charlie overheard and grabbed the receiver.
“You’ve been hard to find,” he said. “I called the hotel. They said you checked out. What’s going on?”
“I’m getting close, Charlie.”
“Close to figuring out who killed the producer?”
“No. But I think I’m going to make Tony Eberle a movie star again. Bigger than before.”
“That would be a happy ending. The readers would like that.”
“Everything’s in place except for Tony’s approval.”
“He’s not onboard?”
“Not yet. Says he’s finished with this town and wants to get as far away as fast as he can.”
“Try to convince him. That would be a great story for us.”
We moved on to discuss the progress on the murder case, and I confessed I was stumped.
“I have suspicions, of course. There are a few people who seem ruthless enough to kill for the right reason. That woman from the studio, Dorothy Fetterman, for one. And she has no shortage of henchmen at her beck and call who would do it if she crooked her finger.”
“Who else?”
“I shouldn’t say, but Tony’s girlfriend is desperate and rash enough to do it. She’s ambitious for herself and Tony. Wallis had plenty of enemies, though. Maybe someone I haven’t come across. Maybe even the director, Archie Stemple. He’s a real hothead. Or Bobby Renfro.”
“Bobby Renfro? The actor?”
“Why not? He’s been cagey about the night he lit out of a party at Wallis’s house about a month ago. And he was there again the night Wallis died. A witness saw him there.”
“Maybe you should follow up on that,” said Charlie.
“Bobby Renfro is taking me out this evening. I’ll let you know.”
“Wow. Are you going to abandon us and marry some movie star?”
“Hardly,” I said, thinking I’d rather bag a job like Dorothy Fetterman’s than a matinee idol like Bobby Renfro for a husband.
“What about Tony?”
“He gave himself up to the cops the other day. But they’ve released him for now.”
“You sure he’s not mixed up in this?”
I glanced over at Mickey who was reading a movie magazine on the bed. “Mostly sure. But I don’t know him well enough to eliminate him.”
“And the roommate?”
“Same,” I said, throwing another look in Mickey’s direction. He didn’t appear to be listening. “I doubt it, but who knows?”
Charlie asked me for my new hotel information. I was pretty sure I was crossing some invisible journalistic line by staying in the apartment of the person I’d been sent to profile. I didn’t want to lie to him, so I didn’t. I told him I was staying with friends, hoping he’d let it go at that. He did. But he wanted the phone number in case he needed to reach me.
“One last bit of news from my end,” said Charlie. “Now that you’ve located Eberle, Artie has decided to send George out to LA. He’s arriving tomorrow afternoon.”
“Now he’s sending him?”
“He’s frustrated with the waiting.”
“Good luck to George finding Tony. He’s lit out again.”
Charlie sympathized with me but insisted that it would certainly work out in my favor. “Any time you go head to head with George, you come out on top. It won’t be any different this time.”
I had bigger headaches than George Walsh, including the possibility that Harvey Dunnolt would rat me out to my boss. I knew that even Charlie would fire me if he found out I’d written a piece for another paper.
“Why did you leave the hotel anyway?” he asked before hanging up.
“Bed bugs,” I said. And that was a lie, pure and simple.
Bobby Renfro drove a red-and-white Corvette convertible. He beeped the horn from outside on Wilton. I peered through the curtains to see him primping in the rearview mirror. If he thought I was going to answer a car horn, he’d be waiting a long time for dinner. After two more tries, he found the manners to climb out of the car and come to the door.
“Didn’t you hear me blowing the horn?” he asked.
“I sure did.”
“Then why didn’t you come out?”
“A gentleman comes to the door to collect his date.”
He gaped at me. “Really? I always just blow the horn.”
In the car, Bobby informed me that he was taking me to the Beverly Hills Hotel. I said that was rather presumptuous.
“Oh, no. Not like that,” he said as we turned onto Sunset Boulevard. “We’re going to eat there. Have you heard of the Polo Lounge?”
“I suppose so. Wasn’t it in some movie or other?”
“Probably. Not my usual speed. Generally I go for less fancy places.”
“Then why are you taking me there? I treated you to Barney’s, after all.”
“Never mind that,” he said. “I wanted to show you a nice time.”
Bobby roared down Sunset in the Vette, and I confess it was a sweet little ride. Not very practical for grocery shopping or family vacations, but a wonderful lure for attracting and hooking young lovelies.
“Nice car,” I said. He grinned. “Is it practical in the rain?”
“It doesn’t rain in Southern California.”
“In my experience, it does nothing but rain here.”
“This year’s a little unusual,” he granted.
Our date was off to a great start. We were talking about the weather. I tried to make more small talk and told him I thought it was too bad the studio had pulled the plug on Twistin’ on the Beach.
“There’ll be other pictures. I’ve got a contract.”
“You were in three or four of Bertram Wallis’s movies. Do you think they might put you in the next one?”
“That widow movie? I heard about it on the lot the other day. Not really my kind of thing. Horses and India and all that. Plus I can’t do an English accent to save my life.”
“Bobby,” I said, stiffening in my seat. I clenched the door handle.
“What is it?” he asked, looking over at me. “Are you sick? You’re as white as a ghost.”
“Take me back to Tony’s place. Right away, please.”
“What’s going on, Ellie? Did I say something wrong?”
“No, Bobby. You said something just right. But I can’t go to dinner with you tonight.”
I didn’t know why it hadn’t struck me earlier. It had taken Bobby Renfro’s commentary on his own acting abilities to jostle the thoughts in my head, and when he said he wouldn’t be right for a role in The Colonel’s Widow, everything rushed into focus. I knew who had killed Bertram Wallis.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
“What are you doing back so soon?” asked Mickey.
“I can’t talk right now,” I said. “I have to phone the police.”
Millard didn’t believe me once I managed to reach him, but he said he’d stop by to hear me out. I hung up the phone and excused myself from Mickey and slipped into the bathroom, my suitcase in tow.
Once safely alone, I popped open the latches and dug into my belongings. It didn’t take long to locate what I was looking for. A photograph of Bertram Wallis’s study. I needed to look through a loupe to confirm my suspicions. But the proof was there in black and white.
Millard took me to a Mexican restaurant, El Coyote on Beverly, where we sat in a booth to talk. I didn’t want to discuss this in front of Mickey or anyone else. Over a drink, I told him he needed to get a search warrant for the Writers Guild.
“It’s Sunday night,” he whined. “Where am I going to get a warrant?”
“Tomorrow morning,” I said.
“What are we looking for?”
“A script.”
“Really?” He sounded skeptical. I nodded. “You say you know who killed Wallis. Why don’t you just tell me, and I’ll go talk to the guy. People usually like to confess once they’re cornered.”
“There’s no reason for an arrest until we see the script. Trust me for twelve hours. By ten tomorrow morning you’ll have your murderer. And your promotion.”
Millard dropped me back at Mickey’s a little after ten. I had to speak to Gene. I dialed his number. No answer. My heart was in my throat. I called Andy on the off chance Gene was with him. He wasn’t. Our conversation felt awkward after what had happened the previous night. He offered an apology, said he shouldn’t drink because it made him angry. I didn’t answer.
“I know where I can find him,” he said.
“Have him meet me at Tony Eberle’s apartment. It’s urgent.”
“Okay, Ellie,” said Mickey once I’d hung up the phone. “You called off a date with Bobby Renfro, then you ran out for a mysterious meeting with a cop. And now you’re begging some reporter to get over here right away. What’s going on?”
I couldn’t tell Mickey. I couldn’t tell anyone. The only person I could talk to was Gene. I apologized to Mickey and lied that Millard had ordered me not to say anything to anyone until the next day.
“And, by the way, that was no date with Bobby Renfro,” I said. “That was Dorothy Fetterman trying to trip me up, I’m sure. She must have had me followed, since I doubt Bobby saw Tony at the gas station. Dorothy arranged the whole thing in the hopes that I’d fall for Bobby and tell him everything.”
“Tell him what?” asked Mickey, almost pleading.
“You really don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“When was the last time you saw April and Tony?”
Mickey tried to recall. “It was the night in Malibu. They left me there with you and went to her place on Edgemont.”
He was convincing, but I just couldn’t take the chance and tell him about the photographs. Certainly never tell him the actor’s name. He was a sweet kid, after all, but damaged and unstable. I didn’t know whom he might tell if I shared the information. Or even if he’d smother me in my sleep on orders from April and steal the safe deposit box key. I wasn’t yet sure whose side he was on, so I lied again.
“Dorothy wants to know what happened to the script for Bertram Wallis’s next film. I know where to find it.”
It wasn’t entirely false. I did know where to find the script. It was collecting dust among the Writers Guild’s inventory.
I had a drink to steady my nerves as I arranged my thoughts and waited for Gene to show up. An hour ticked by. Still no knock at the door. I phoned him again, but there was no answer. Same result at Andy’s number. Mickey dozed off on his bed. I dimmed the lights and poured myself another drink.
It was past eleven thirty when I heard someone climb the stoop outside and enter the hallway. A moment later there was a soft rap at the door. I rushed to open and found Andy Blaine standing there.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
“Andy. What are you doing here? I was expecting Gene.”
“Aren’t you glad to see me?” he slurred.
“Where’s Gene?”
Andy shrugged and tried to push his way inside. I held him back with a hand against his chest.
“Where’s Gene?” I repeated.
“Who cares about him? I’m all you need.”
“You’re drunk,” I said. “I think you should go home and sleep it off.”
“No, I want to come in.” He proceeded to do just that.
“Andy, no. You have to leave now.”
“Come on. How about a kiss?”
“No.”
“Come on. You can’t leave me hanging like this.”
And he was on me in an instant, pushing me back into the wooden chairs and onto the floor. Roused by the rumble, Mickey called out. I couldn’t see him, but he was yelling for Andy to stop. Andy had me pinned on the floor like a wrestler. His hands held mine over my head, and he’d forced his legs between mine. His unshaven face pressed against my cheek in an attempt to immobilize my head, which I was thrashing back and forth to resist him. I could smell the beer and tamale sauce on his breath, and I wanted to vomit on him. He was heavy, and he used his size to hold me in place. Then I felt the wallop of more weight on my body, nearly knocking the wind out of me. Where was the referee to call piling on? Another of those odd thoughts that occur so unexpectedly in life-threatening moments. And, indeed, someone had piled on. Mickey. I caught a glimpse of him—tiny little Mickey—on Andy’s back, riding him like a bucking bronco. He screamed, spat, and pulled at him, grabbing him by the chin as he tried to pry him off me. Andy was screaming something incoherent about teaching me a lesson, and despite Mickey’s bravest efforts, it looked as if he might succeed. Then Mickey’s delicate hands found Andy’s eyes. My aggressor roared and reared up like a wounded beast, shaking Mickey off his back. Andy stumbled to his feet and turned his attention to my overmatched champion. Mickey had fallen into a jumble on the floor near the kitchen sink. Andy lunged at him, throttled him with both hands, and lifted him up by the throat.
“I’m going to kill you, you little faggot!”
I righted myself, intending to rescue Mickey. I didn’t know how I’d manage it, but I was going to do it. Only I never got the chance. The clap of a baseball bat, colliding with the back of Andy’s head, put an end to his plans for Mickey. On the other end of the bat, Evelyn Maynard’s sturdy hands gripped the handle. She stood there in her nightgown, a gladiatrix towering over her flattened foe. And her long, ebony cigarette holder, clenched between her teeth, jutted upward to
the ceiling in victory.
“Hollywood Girls Softball League,” she said in a hoarse whisper.
MONDAY, FEBRUARY 19, 1962
The rain returned with a vengeance. I was sore and tired after my late night. Wrestling with a deranged photographer and then making a statement to the police afterward. But I had an appointment with Millard and didn’t intend to miss it.
“I heard you had some trouble last night,” said Millard as I climbed into his unmarked car.
“Not exactly an evening with Ozzie and Harriet.”
“You’re a magnet for trouble, you know that?”
“Did you get the warrant?”
Millard patted his left breast pocket and threw the car into gear. “It’s a little irregular for me to let you come along,” he said. “But the warrant kind of clued us in to what we’re looking for. If you’re right, that was pretty clever of you. So as a reward, I convinced my captain to let you be there for the search. You can’t say or touch anything, but you can stand a few feet away and watch.”
“Thank you, Sergeant.”
“You’re welcome, Miss Stone.”
The nice folks at the Writers Guild choked when Millard and two patrolmen presented them with the warrant at 10:15 on a Monday morning. Truth be told, they probably would have been happy to show the police what they wanted to see without a warrant. But the writ made things official. Blanche, the same woman who’d assisted me nearly two weeks earlier, showed the two patrolmen through a door behind the front desk. The three of them returned five minutes later with a couple of parcels. Millard took possession and placed them on a desk. Each parcel, wrapped in brown paper and bound with string, measured eight and a half by eleven inches.
Millard flashed the woman a big smile. “Would you be kind enough to identify these two items?”
Perplexed, she gaped at him through her horn-rimmed glasses and asked if he knew how to read. Millard’s smile dimmed, and he told her a little less politely to read the labels.
Cast the First Stone Page 29
