[Celebrity Murder Case 01] - The Dorothy Parker Murder Case

by George Baxt

  “What’s that you’re humming?” he asked.

  “I always hum when I’m thinking.” Lie. I always hum when I’m frightened. I hum when I come home alone at night to a dark and empty studio and it’s usually something, jazzy like “Yes, We Have No Bananas.”1

  “Don’t think. Say ‘yes’. Come away with me.”

  ‘“Come fly with me and be my bride.’” She quoted someone she couldn’t identify readily in her state of bewilderment. “I couldn’t even be a bride. There’d be no way to serve Ed with papers.” He moved away from her, and she gave a small, tiny, very tiny sigh of relief. She followed him to the middle of the room. “I need time to think.”

  “I don’t have that much time.”

  “Why is it so urgent?”

  “I can’t explain it to you.” A statement to be placed atop the stockpile of all the other things he wouldn’t explain.

  “I need time, Lacey. It’s like I said, we barely know each other. Give me a few days.”

  There was no describable expression on his face. It was as though in that moment he’d been transformed into marble, the perfectly sculptured face to be admired though cold and inanimate. “All right,” he said. “Shall we go to the party?”

  “Oh, yes! A party is just what’s called for!”

  Opening the door to Neysa McMein’s huge studio was like being greeted by a blast from Vesuvius. From the Victrola they could hear the tinny rhythms of “Black Bottom,” and surprisingly enough, George Raft was in the centre of the room, the rug having been rolled back, doing a voluptuous shimmy, circled by a group of admiring flappers clapping their hands, snapping their fingers, urging him on to increasingly lewd movements of his midriff. Texas Guinan was in a corner of the studio deep in what appeared to be a serious conversation with Horace Liveright until he bellowed a laugh Mrs. Parker realized was detonated by the punch line of one of Guinan’s notoriously filthy anecdotes. In another part of the room, Marc Connelly had an admiring audience of his own, captivated by his perennial party piece the “Death of Cleopatra.” As he pressed an imaginary asp to his breast, Connelly screamed “Jeeeeee … zussssss!” and tore his section of the room down. Mrs. Parker wished he'd find himself another party piece. This one was frayed by familiarity. She recognized Franklin P. Adams with his wife, Esther, and they exchanged loud hellos across the room. There were cries of “There’s Dottie!” and “Oh, it’s Lacey Van Weber!” and from their respective positions in some quarters of the room, Woollcott and Jacob Singer acknowledged the new arrivals. Singer was pinned to a chair by a fresh-faced pugnosed girl who appeared to be riveted to his lap. She was spooning gin into his mouth from a mug she held somewhat loosely, Singer expecting it any moment to be dumped into his crotch. On the balcony overlooking the studio, couples were necking and drinking and John Baragwanath looked silly wearing one of Neysa’s hats. Neysa came out of the bathroom holding a pitcher of gin over her head and yelled at Mrs. Parker, “Where the hell have you been?” Mrs. Parker introduced her to Van Weber, who thanked her politely for letting him come to her party, and Neysa suggested he also thank her husband as nobody ever seemed to thank her husband for anything but his impending departure. Mrs. Parker was hoping for an opportunity to capture the ears of Woollcott and Singer and report the latest startling turn of events. Someone put a glass of gin in her hands, and when she turned to Van Weber, she saw him with glass of gin in hand, making his way across the room to someone he apparently knew. Abandoned so soon, she thought forlornly; men just can’t be trusted, the dogs. I’m tired of them vandalizing my emotions.

  She heard a familiar voice above the din saying, “I got your message, but I didn’t have no time to call you back.” Charlotte Royce looked like a five-and-dime trinket in her beaded dress.

  “How’d you get here so soon from the theatre?” asked Mrs. Parker.

  “I skipped the second act.” She winked. “The boss is pal of mine. See y’around.” She slithered away, and Mrs Parker tried to get across the room to Woollcott. She was stopped by a cadaverous-looking man who complimented her on a recent contribution to F.P.A.’s column, “The Conning Tower.” Staring at the man gave her the feeling she was looking into an open coffin.

  An arm grabbed her elbow, and she turned and looked into Robert Benchley’s smiling face. He said into her ear, “Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.”

  “I thought you were going to Hollywood.”

  “This is my farewell appearance.”

  “You make more farewell appearances than Sarah Bernhardt.”

  The Victrola was now blaring “The Sheik of Araby.” Mrs. Parker wondered who was being cute, the song having been inspired by Rudolph Valentino. To her right she heard Liveright saying to a girl, “I’d love to beat you!”

  “At what?” demurely inquired his intended victim, a Mrs. Parker was looking past Benchley, not hearing his conversation, to Woollcott, whom she was eager to reach. Woollcott was being asked by Neysa, “What can I get you?”

  “An enema.”

  From the babble of voices Mrs. Parker heard someone ask someone, “Do you really know Texas Guinan?”

  “I knew her years ago when she was young and almost pretty.”

  From behind her, Mrs. Parker felt herself pulled into the embrace of a pair of beefy arms. She turned her head and recognized the ursine Heywood Broun. She was delighted. She liked Broun and especially the fine column he wrote for the New York World, “It Seems to Me.”

  “Broun, where the hell have you been keeping yourself?”

  “I’ve been trying to put a revue together for Broadway' Why aren’t you home writing me some sketches? The bastard next to you”—indicating Benchley—“is abandoning us for the fleshpots of the Babylon of the West.”

  “We need the money,” said Benchley defensively.

  “Where’s the wife?” Mrs. Parker asked Broun. “Cringing somewhere in the midst of these walls of putrefying flesh. I told her to send up a flare if she gets into trouble.

  “Ruth never gets into trouble,” said George S. Kaufman, who took them by surprise.

  “And where’s your wife, Kaufman?” asked Broun.

  “Somewhere getting into trouble,” replied Kaufman morosely. They pointed him toward a table where he could find a soft drink and perhaps a warm body, and he pushed his way in that direction.

  A flapper grabbed Kaufman by his lapel and screeched, “Hey, cutie, where are you going?”

  “Into cardiac arrest.”

  “Can I come with you?”

  Kaufman shrugged and assumed the role of Pied Piper although only luring one tiny little mouse.

  Broun, looking over their heads, announced Woollcott now had himself a sizable audience. “He’s conducting himself like the papal nuncio at the college of cardinals.”

  “You must be kind to Alec,” said Mrs. Parker “he’s had a dreadful shock.”

  “So I’ve heard,” said Broun.

  “So we’ve all heard,” said Benchley with a bored expression and voice to match.

  “Don’t be unkind, Mr. Benchley, it was a traumatic experience. The poor boy might have been killed.”

  “Nothing can kill Woollcott,” said Broun, “not even a silver bullet.”

  Two girls were pushing past them. One said, “He’s such a bore! He’s telling the same joke over and over and over again.”

  Mrs. Parker interrupted by gently suggesting to the girl, “Perhaps he has a one-crack mind.”

  “Dottie,” said Benchley, “you need a refill.”

  After he was out of earshot, Broun asked Mrs. Parker, “You read Benchley’s piece?”

  “Somewhat.”

  “I didn’t like it. What should have been as light and fluffy as a meringue crust comes out as heavy and portentous as a first love affair.”

  “Block that metaphor,” said Mrs. Parker.

  A man with a heavy beard and moustache shoved his face into Mrs. Parker’s. “Aren’t you Lillian?” he boomed.

  “Oh no. Lillian
passed away this morning.” The man staggered away, and Mrs. Parker fanned herself with her hand. “The last time I saw a face like his, Tarzan was feeding it bananas.”

  “Mrs. Parker! How nice to see you again!” It was Florenz Ziegfeld. “And how are you enjoying these Roman revels?”

  “About as much as I enjoyed your show last night.” Jacob Singer pushed the girl off his lap and she slid drunkenly to the floor. “Hey!” she yelled, “that’s no way to treat a lady!” He stepped over her and pushed his way in search of Mrs. Parker. He overheard Franklin P. Adams asking a young thing, “What part of the South are you from?”

  “West Vagina.”

  “Good evening, Mr. Singer.” Singer turned and looked into the smiling face of Lacey Van Weber. “Having a good time?”

  “I’m not sure what I’m having,” replied Singer. “Mrs. Parker tells me she had quite a time with you today.”

  “Yes, it was a lovely outing. You must come out and see the estate for yourself.”

  “I wouldn’t mind that at all,” said Singer graciously.

  Van Weber appeared to be thinking. “Perhaps we can arrange something for this weekend. We might ask Mrs. Parker and Woollcott and a few others. I’m expecting some friends in from Europe. They’re sailing into my private dock on their yacht.”

  “How pretentious.”

  “They can afford to be. Lord and Lady Wussex. Fred and Elfreda. You must have heard of them.”

  “Well, I don’t travel much in yachting circles, but yeah, I’ve heard of them. So they’ll be docking sometime on Saturday night.”

  “Wouldn’t it be fun to give them a welcoming party?”

  “You sure they wouldn’t prefer to be welcomed by their own friends?”

  “Fred and Elfreda don’t care who welcomes them, as long as they’re welcomed.”

  “Well, what the hell?”

  “Why not, old sport? Shall we ask the others?”

  “Sure, if we can find them. This place is like Madison Square Garden on a Friday night.”

  “Stop trying to insult Broun,” Mrs. Parker was saying to Benchley after he returned with fresh drinks for them. “It’s like throwing spitballs at an elephant.” Past Broun’s imposing figure which did indeed resemble an unkempt mastodon, Mrs. Parker saw Lily Robson huddled by herself against a wall. “I see somebody I know. Don’t wait for me to come back.” She left them abruptly, elbowing her way toward the Robson girl.

  “Hi,” said an oily voice that belonged to the unctuous George Raft, “remember me?”

  “The way I remember the Alamo.”

  “I hear you were out visiting my old buddy Lacey’s place.”

  “My, a girl’s virtue just ain’t safe any place.” Mrs. Parker lacked a wad of chewing gum to make her impersonation of a shopgirl perfection. “Just about how old an old buddy of yours is Lacey?”

  Raft’s face reddened. He’d done it again. Just a few words, but he’d said too much. “You know what I mean when I say old buddy. I always say old buddy when I talk about a chance acquaintance.”

  “Lacey’s no chance acquaintance. He’s a real old buddy.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Raft tried to laugh it off. “You know something I don’t know?”

  “Mr. Raft, a child of three knows something you don’t know.” She pushed her way past him, missing the snarl forming around his mouth.

  Franklin P. Adams was reciting a new poem to a group he had captured. Benchley listened for a minute and then asked stentoriously, “Anyone for Tennyson?”

  A man elbowed his way in front of Mrs. Parker. She recognized him. He was Carl Van Vechten, the tall, willowy novelist and photographer. “Oh, dear, Mrs. Parker, it’s you,” he simpered, “I didn’t mean to jostle my way ahead of you.”

  “Go right ahead, Mr. Van Vechten,” said Mrs. Parker politely with a gracious wave of her hand, “effete first.” Lily Robson saw Mrs. Parker approaching and smiled with recognition. “Honest to God,” gasped Mrs. Parker when she reached the girl, “Peary must have made better time to the South Pole than I did crossing this room. How are you, dear, not alone, are you?”

  “Mr. Connelly brought me, but I’ve lost him.”

  “Let’s hope your luck holds out. How are you feeling?”

  “A hell of a lot better, let me tell you.”

  Mrs. Parker bent her head conspiratorially, causing the taller woman to bend slightly in order to hear her. “The pill was innocent. That wasn’t what made you sick.”

  “Gee, thanks for telling me. My nerves are so shot I've been tempted to swallow some all day.”

  “They’re also useless.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They’re like candy. Tasty but meaningless.”

  “You mean Horathy’s been conning me?”

  “It’s hard to guess what the bad doctor is up to, he’s such a shadowy figure. I’d stay away from him in the future, if I were you.”

  “You don’t have to tell me twice. Believe me, it’s the last time he’s seen my back going out his door. Damn it, Texas is waving at me.”

  “Wave back.”

  “She’s with somebody she wants me to meet.”

  “It’s Horace Liveright. He’s my publisher.”

  “Is he nice?”

  “I used to think so.”

  “Whaddya mean?”

  Mrs. Parker told her about Liveright’s orgies.

  “Why, that’s not nice!” said Lily.

  “Dear, are you always given to such understatement?” Mrs. Parker clucked her tongue. “He draws most of his female participants from Polly Adler’s seraglio, but he likes to pump in some fresh blood every now and then. Be very careful.”

  “Thanks for the warning. I’ll see you later.”

  “Oh, I’ll be here.” God help me, she was thinking, I’ll most certainly be here.

  “We’ve been looking all over the place for you.” She’d been found by Van Weber and Singer.

  “Believe me, I haven’t been hiding. Let’s move over near the window. I’m suffocating.” At the window. Van Weber repeated his invitation for Saturday. Singer looked like the cat that swallowed the canary.

  “Has anyone asked Woollcott?” she asked, beginning to feel a bit faint.

  “I’m sure he’ll want to come,” said Singer with the assurance of a hangman about to release the trapdoor.

  “You’re sure who’ll want to come and where?” Woollcott’s arrival was fortuitous. He was mopping his brow with a paper napkin. Van Weber repeated his invitation. “Lord and Lady Wussex? Fred and Elfreda? They have a yacht? Where the hell did they get a yacht? When seen in the South of France last summer, they were absolutely penurious! Why, it seemed to be just a few steps for them from their pension to the poorhouse! Isn’t it astonishing how the wheel of misfortune can sometimes reverse itself!” Woollcott was off and running, waxing eloquent like a soapbox orator who had recaptured a lost audience.

  “Isn’t it nice that you know them?” said Van Weber smoothly. Then to Singer, “So there’ll be at least one old friend there to greet them.”

  “Who says I’ll be there to greet them? They’re perfectly dreadful people. She has cracked brown teeth and lisps and he suffers from the gout and a deviated septum.”

  Singer interrupted. “Van Weber says they’re bringing with them a crowd of celebrities.”

  “There, Alec. Isn’t that an enticement?” Mrs. Parker explained to Van Weber, “Alec dotes on crowds of celebrities. Look how he’s thriving here tonight. Does this picture of jovial good humour look like a man who almost lost his life today?”

  “I’m glad you admire my performance,” said Woollcott, drawing himself up regally. “It’s incredibly difficult to sustain.” He favoured Van Weber with a vague smile. “I’d be delighted to be among your coterie on Saturday. I presume there will be limousines to transport us to and fro?”

  “With liveried chauffeurs,” added Mrs. Parker, “if we play our cards right.” From the phonograph she could hear “P
oor Butterfly” and it made her feel sad. She was happy that Jacob Singer asked her to dance and, once away from Van Weber and Woollcott, told him of Van Weber’s offer of elopement, commenting, “My cup runneth over and I just might drown in the spillage.”

  “Isn’t that rather sudden?”

  “Exactly what I said.”

  “Something’s up. It’s the yacht.”

  “From what Woollcott said, the Wussexes sound like they’d make anybody decide to head out of town.”

  “The yacht’s a camouflage. I can predict what will be found in the hold.”

  “Bootleg booze?” asked Mrs. Parker brightly.

  “And more. Kilos of morphine. Cocaine. The works. We’ve been tipped that someone was planning to come in with the biggest haul to date.”

  “And we’re invited there to witness it?”

  “We’re invited there to witness it and never report it. “You mean we’re to be killed? Lacey couldn’t be that angry with me for stalling him!”

  “We’re insurance. If there’s a slip-up, we’re out there and in the line of fire. That’s when Van Weber and his boys make their getaway. The yacht’s probably equipped with souped-up engines and can outrun the Coast Guard.”

  “Mr. Singer, I just remembered a sewing bee I promised to attend on Saturday night.”

  “You ain’t chickening out on me now, Mrs. Parker. You don’t think I’d let us walk into a beehive like that unprotected, do you?”

  “No, I don’t. But on the other hand, bravery and self-sacrifice have never been my strong points.”

  “Think of the fun we’ll have.”

  “I can’t wait to see the look on Alec’s face when you break it to him.”

  “I’m not going to break it to him.”

  “I had an idea you were going to say that. The music’s stopped.”

  “Poor Butterfly” gave way to “Bambalina.”

  Mrs. Parker heard Florenz Ziegfeld asking a buxom, overrouged, overjeweled middle-aged woman, “And how’s your husband?”

  “My husband?” She shrieked with laughter. “Why, he went down on the Titanic! Irving was always thoughtful.” Mrs. Parker and Singer rejoined Woollcott and Van Weber. Woollcott announced, “The cars will call for us promptly at six p.m. Saturday evening. Dress will be informal.”