All That Glitters

by Michael Murphy

“The studio controls everything, or you don’t work. That includes not being seen in public with anyone who isn’t a part of the old man’s publicity plan.”

  “Old man?”

  “Norman Carville, the studio’s founder and taskmaster. Even his two sons avoid him as much as possible.”

  “So you and Roland Harper’s relationship…”

  “Relationship?” Christine patted my knee. “Roland’s hardly my type. I’m not involved with anyone, presently.”

  I was in love with Laura. Christine’s flirtatious behavior made me as comfortable as a lobster in a restaurant aquarium.

  “You and Dashiell Hammett are my favorite authors. I hear he’s working on a screenplay for something called The Thin Man.”

  “You’re a mystery fan?”

  She fluffed her hair. The platinum shimmered in the afternoon sun. “There’s a brain under these blond locks. Things get pretty boring between takes on the set. Actors who don’t read end up drinking much too early in the day.”

  “Dashiell and I used to work together as Pinkerton detectives. We still keep in touch. He told me The Thin Man is far different from his serious mysteries, Maltese Falcon and Red Harvest. It’s a mystery, but also a romantic comedy.” I didn’t share Dashiell based Nick Charles on himself, or at least the kind of guy Dashiell would like to be—a wealthy man with few responsibilities and the ability to drink early and often. He based Nora Charles not on his wife, but his longtime lover, playwright Lillian Hellman.

  Christine’s eyes narrowed. “I’d kill to be in a hit comedy, but word is MGM has already outbid old man Carville for the rights to a book that hasn’t even been released yet! Scuttlebutt says MGM wants William Powell to play the lead, with Myrna Loy as his wife. Myrna Loy! She’s way too nice.” She squeezed my hand. “I need a successful comedy to change my bad-girl image.”

  “Midnight Wedding is a comedy.”

  “But I still play a bad girl.” Christine’s vulnerable expression revealed her insecurity. “Laura’s the virgin and gets most of the laughs.”

  Christine stopped at a red light. Two college-age men crossing in front of us stared at the flashy roadster. One of them pointed to Christine and ran to the side of her car. “Miss Brody…would you, would you sign my…my…”

  She removed her glasses and gave him the once-over. “Your what, darling?”

  He frantically patted the pockets of his shirt then pulled out a pen and offered his hand. “My palm?”

  Christine signed his hand and returned the pen. The light turned green, and a cab behind us honked.

  “Gosh, thanks.” He stepped back and stared at his palm, giving me a look like I was the luckiest guy in town.

  Christine waved, shifted gears, and sped through the intersection.

  “Must be irritating being hounded by fans.”

  “Darling, when folks stop asking, I’ll start worrying.”

  She pulled into the parking lot of the Hollywood Hotel and shut off the engine. “Have you taken a look at the Midnight Wedding screenplay?”

  I read every line nearly a dozen times from New York to Los Angeles. “Laura let me read it…during a layover in Kansas City.”

  “Did you enjoy the layover?”

  I couldn’t help but chuckle.

  She brushed a shock of hair from her eyes. “I’ve read all your novels. You write dialogue that’s crisp, funny, and dripping with suspense. That’s what the movie needs. Would you be interested in punching up the script? I mean, if Dashiell can do it…”

  I had no intention of intruding on Laura’s world. “I don’t have the time.”

  “Do you…do you have time to come with me to the party tonight? I hate to attend studio soirées unescorted.”

  Was she serious?

  “Unless Laura would mind.”

  Of course Laura would mind. “That’s not an issue.”

  I listed a number of reasons why I couldn’t or shouldn’t go. I needed to work on my novel, which was true. I was expecting a call from my editor, Mildred, God forbid. My reasons sounded like excuses.

  Christine’s face reddened, and a tear slid down her cheek. She started the car and stared straight ahead. “Don’t forget your bag in back.”

  I’d offended Laura’s costar, something I was determined to avoid. “I’m being silly. It would be an honor to accompany you to the party, Miss Brody.”

  “Christine.” She startled me with a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  Holding the bag, I watched her drive off. Releasing a tear had been an act, and a damn good one. How would I explain I’d accepted Christine’s invitation to Laura?

  The day hadn’t turned out at all the way I’d planned. Instead of finally getting engaged to Laura Wilson, I’d be attending a party with one of Hollywood’s flashiest dames. Laura would understand. Sure she would.

  The hotel clerk handed me a key and a folded phone message from Laura, apologizing for leaving me at the terminal. She hoped I understood she wouldn’t be able to leave the party until late.

  I rode the elevator to the third floor. The first good news since I stepped off the train was the discovery of a spacious suite. It was everything I’d hoped it would be, including a balcony with a view of the Hollywood sign. A mahogany desk the perfect size for my Underwood had a radio and a telephone. A queen-sized bed sat in a spacious bedroom.

  The luggage from the train station had arrived intact, neatly stacked beside a small dining table outside the open bedroom door, where a bottle of French champagne sat in a frosty bucket of ice. Beside the bottle was a card with the studio logo on it, signed by Eric Carville. The champagne reminded me how people who ran Hollywood believed some laws, particularly Prohibition, didn’t apply to them.

  I paced the room, trying to figure out how to get out of this mess. I couldn’t cancel my plans with Christine without causing problems for Laura. What was I supposed to do, show up on the arm of the famous platinum blonde? I couldn’t think of a way to contact Laura at the studio without arousing someone’s suspicion about our relationship.

  I spent the rest of the afternoon unpacking as best I could. When I finished, I checked the desk clock. It was time to get ready for the Carville party. Could the day get any worse?

  After a shower, I changed into a dinner jacket, dreading the night ahead of me. Instead of spending the evening at Manuel’s, proposing to the woman I’d loved since I was a teenager, I had to attend a bash with rich snobs, the kind of party I’d always detested when I’d lived in L.A. Worse, I’d be escorting an actress notorious for collecting men, a dame who hadn’t hidden her interest in me, unless that had been an act, like her tear. My buddy Gino would laugh at my “predicament.”

  I ran my finger around the inside of my collar. The bow tie I’d cinched around my neck felt more like a noose.

  In the lobby, I sat planning how best to explain to Laura why I’d accepted the party invitation. When Christine arrived in a form-hugging silver gown and white fur stole, I knew I had my work cut out for me.

  She twirled as if stepping from the silver screen. I felt less like a gigolo when she handed me the keys to her roadster. She ran her glossy red fingernails across the satin facing on the lapels of my tuxedo. “You look dashing, Jake.”

  I was glad to see the convertible top up when we reached her car. I opened the passenger door for Christine, as if we were a regular couple. I drove cautiously from the hotel as I got used to the stiff suspension and responsive gears of the roadster. By the time we reached the foothills, the car was driving itself and I was just along for the ride.

  She called out directions until we pulled into the well-lit circular drive at the Carville Estate, a Spanish-style mansion nestled in the Hollywood Hills. Near the front door, Eric Carville, a drink in one hand, stood arguing with a man six inches shorter and about forty pounds lighter.

  Christine shielded her eyes with one hand as we drove past. “The Carville brothers are starting early tonight.”

&nb
sp; Todd gestured with a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. His spindly neck was the size of Eric’s wrist. His arms appeared to connect with his body without pausing to bother with shoulders. Todd Carville might be a mouse of a man, but he wasn’t backing down from his younger brother.

  My Pinkerton days taught me not to underestimate a determined man with a slight stature. I wasn’t sure if his brother Eric had learned the same lesson.

  Two valets in spiffy sapphire-blue uniforms greeted us as I pulled up behind a silver Mercedes. I left the car running and handed the keys to a valet half my age while the other one opened Christine’s door and helped her out.

  Christine parked herself beneath one of the lights that led to the front door and fluffed her hair. “How do I look?”

  “Swell.”

  “Just ‘swell’?” Her ocean-blue eyes narrowed into mere slits. “This isn’t some tea party. I need a hell of a lot better than ‘swell.’ ”

  I’d forgotten how insecure actors and actresses could be. “Every woman at the party will be jealous of you tonight.”

  She adjusted my bow tie. “Because I’m with you.”

  Arms crossed, Eric Carville stood between two marble pillars framing the double front doors. His glass was empty, his brother nowhere in sight. Also missing was a shred of the sophistication Eric displayed at Union Station. Ignoring me, he grabbed Christine’s arm and jerked her away from the front door.

  “Get your mitts off her.” I didn’t care who he was. I didn’t like any man laying his hands on any woman that way. More than that, his domineering mug made my stomach lurch. I’d seen the same bullying expression on a hundred other bums pushing around a hundred other dames.

  Eric’s jaw clenched, and the tendons stood out on his neck. “This isn’t any of your business, Donovan.”

  “It is tonight.” I yanked his hand from Christine’s arm.

  Clearly soused, Eric stumbled backward and banged against one of the pillars. He howled like a wounded coyote.

  Eric wiped his ear with his hand. He noticed the blood on his fingers, and his lower lip quivered. Tears filled his eyes and rolled down his cheek. He began to sniffle.

  Was Eric a kid in a man’s body?

  He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. Ignoring his bloodied ear, he dried his eyes. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  I almost apologized. I glanced at Christine who looked away.

  I took her arm and led her into the house.

  Eric shouted,”You son of a bitch! What’s she to you, anyway?”

  “She’s a lady.”

  I paused in a foyer across from a ballroom where dance music played. I studied her face. “Are you okay?”

  “A lady, huh?” She hugged me, her words breathless against my ear. “Laura’s a lucky gal to have a man like you.”

  “What’s Eric Carville’s problem?”

  “Grabbing me, or blubbering like a baby over the sight of blood?”

  “Let’s start with the easy one: the tears.”

  “He’s a very sensitive guy, especially when he drinks.” She pulled a compact from her purse and freshened her makeup. “I’ve never seen anyone talk to Eric like that. I’ve known plenty who’d like to, but none had the guts, until tonight.”

  Now more than ever I wished I hadn’t agreed to accompany Christine to the party. I placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “What was that all about?”

  She dismissed the question with a wave. “It’s a good thing you and Laura Wilson aren’t a couple. As gallant as I found your behavior, if you were a couple, you might’ve cost Laura her job.”

  I needed a drink. If Eric was the boozehound he appeared to be, maybe he wouldn’t even remember I’d bloodied his ear.

  A man in a white tux, red bow tie, and striped vest with gold buttons took my hat, thanked me, and called me sir with a British accent. If it wasn’t for an ill-fitting white toupee, he might have been a butler out of central casting. When he bowed, I feared his hair might end up on the floor.

  “Good evening, Miss Brody.”

  “Thank you, James.” Christine handed over her fur stole, which blended perfectly with the butler’s hair. “How’s Norman today?”

  “Mr. Carville works when he should be resting. He has no business hosting this party, but he rarely listens to me. I’m just his butler.”

  Christine chuckled. “If he listens to anyone, it’s you.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” He walked away with a noticeable limp.

  I led Christine toward the ballroom. “Is Norman Carville not well?”

  “It’s his heart. The rumor is he has one.”

  Inside the ballroom, a photographer raised his camera.

  While Christine posed, I stepped aside. She slowly turned, showing off her figure-flattering gown to the photographer. After three pictures, Christine grabbed my arm and pulled me into the shoot.

  I tried not to show my discontent over being around dozens of actors I didn’t know at a party I was reluctantly attending. I just wanted to find Laura and set things straight with her before she spotted Christine and me.

  I blinked rapidly, helping my eyes adjust to the flash. With tall ceilings, a twelve-piece band, and a dance floor, the room seemed more like a nightclub than a ballroom. I’d been to parties like this before, sprinkled with actors and rich businessmen who owned expensive cars and flashy dames.

  A part of me wanted to run screaming from the house, but Laura was somewhere in the room. I knew it with the same certainty that I knew booze would help me make it through the night.

  As we moved through the crowd, people greeted Christine as if the party was a movie premiere. I couldn’t escape the impression that most were wondering who the hell I was.

  Christine slipped her arm in mine. “You’re making it too obvious you’re searching for Laura Wilson.”

  “I am not.”

  I followed her eyes to the far corner of the dance floor. Laura, in a black clinging dress I didn’t recognize, was dancing with her other costar, Roland Harper, to a Cole Porter tune, a bit too close for my comfort. Her dimpled smile and dark curls might give her the girl-next-door look the studio was after, but plenty of men nearby were admiring the backless dress and black spiked heels I was certain weren’t in her suitcases from New York.

  “Unclench your jaw, baby. He’s harmless.”

  Before I could set Christine straight, the music ended, and Laura excused herself from Harper and sat at a table beside Todd Carville. Laura could take care of herself around a playboy like Harper or a bore like Eric. Nevertheless I breathed a sigh of relief that she seemed to prefer spending time with Todd.

  “I’ll go powder my nose. Grab me a champagne cocktail, will you, dear?”

  Christine made her way through the room, progressing slowly as she stopped to exchange kisses and rave about other women’s gowns that were far less impressive than hers.

  She reached Todd Carville and Laura’s table and kissed Laura’s cheek. She sat beside her and held her hand in a welcome-to-Hollywood kind of way.

  I headed for the bar and caught the attention of one of the two bartenders in white dinner jackets. “Two champagne cocktails, please.” With Christine out of view, I blew out a sigh of relief.

  “Make mine a Manhattan.”

  Beside me stood a familiar fortyish man. His crisp voice, thin mustache, and tailored clothes presented an urbane and sophisticated presence. He studied my face and wrinkled his brow. “You look like a patient bracing for dental surgery.”

  Maybe the party wasn’t filled with stiffs and egotistical actors after all. “It’s that obvious?”

  “That obvious.” He stuck out his hand with a smile I recognized from the big screen. “I’m William Powell. Call me Bill.”

  Chapter 3

  A Sizzling Red Dress

  I shook William Powell’s hand. Bill? I might be able to summon the courage to call him Bill, but I’d always think of him as William Powell, one of Hollywood’s most debonair leading
men. “Jake Donovan.”

  “Sure. The mystery writer and former sleuth from New York. Word is you’re in Hollywood to write a screenplay for the Carvilles.”

  On the drive from the train station Christine suggested I punch up the Midnight Wedding screenplay. Now this. “I’m not here to write a screenplay,” I said a bit too forcefully, not wanting the rumor to spread and possibly get back to Laura.

  “I ran into your pal Dashiell Hammett last week. We had a few drinks at a local speakeasy. Within minutes, he was entertaining the entire establishment with hilarious stories about your detective days together. Did you really hot-wire Fatty Arbuckle’s car?”

  “Dashiell did that!”

  Powell chuckled then stared at the bartender with more than a little impatience. The actor’s penchant for late-night activities, along with Ronald Colman and Richard Barthelmess, earned them the nickname of Hollywood’s Three Musketeers. “So, why aren’t you enjoying the party, Jake?”

  “I just spent several days in a cramped train compartment on a bed the size of an ironing board. I’d prefer to be at the hotel in a soft, comfortable bed.”

  His eyes twinkled like I’d seen in the movies. “I couldn’t help notice you arrive with Christine Brody. She’s one sweet patootie! Keep the drinks coming, and I’m sure you’ll be at your hotel in short order.”

  That wasn’t going to happen. Nevertheless, Powell proved to be friendlier and more likable than the handful of Hollywood actors I knew when I was an L.A. Pinkerton. “Congratulations on your upcoming role in The Thin Man. You’ll make a perfect Nick Charles.”

  “Not much of a challenge. My character drinks from morning till night and is in love with his wife.”

  Eric Carville entered the ballroom, drinking from a flask. Being drunk didn’t excuse his boorish behavior toward Christine.

  Across the crowded dance floor, I spotted Laura dancing with Todd Carville. Shorter than Laura, he was about as graceful as a three-legged cow. I wanted to cut in, but the last thing I’d do was intrude on her studio business. Still, I had to explain why I was here with Christine.

  The busy bartender finally set our drinks on the counter.