Anyone?
Roland’s eyes widened in shock. “Poor choice of words.”
Was it?
As if he’d said too much, Roland tapped his cigarette and flicked ash into the ashtray. “Where are my manners? Congratulations on your engagement. You and Laura make a lovely couple.”
“Thank you, but I’m worried we’ll probably always associate our engagement with Eric’s death.”
“You mean murder.”
“I heard it might be suicide.”
“You did?” Roland furrowed his brow. “I hope so because everyone at the party is a dear friend of mine. I can’t imagine one of them shooting Eric, even though they might welcome his death.” His eyes misted. “Word is blood was everywhere.”
“Not as much as other crime scenes I’ve seen.”
He glanced toward the girls at the next table and spoke in a near whisper: “The scuttlebutt I hear says the police think Eric might have slipped into the room to rendezvous with a lover.”
“Any idea who she might have been?”
“She? This is Hollywood, Jake. Whoever it was, I can’t imagine someone with such low self-esteem they’d sleep with Eric Carville.”
I shrugged.
“I’m not a gossip, but…” Roland waited as the belly dancers left and passed by outside without glancing our way. “Someone who desperately wanted to be on his good side, if he had a good side, was Angie Burkheart.”
“Sonny’s mother?” Maybe I hadn’t been wrong to give her a short spoke.
“She’d do anything for her son’s career.”
Even murder?
Across the way, the door to the soundstage flew open. Christine came running out, shrieking.
Roland and I grabbed our hats, hurried outside, and skidded to a stop beside her.
Chocolate dripped from Christine’s blond hair and down her neck. Sticky flour and eggs covered most of her dress. She wiped a glob of egg white with her hand and flung it to the ground.
Roland doubled over with laughter. We both dodged a blob of chocolate Christine threw at him. “Who”—he snorted laughter—“won the food fight?”
She pointed a finger at me and snapped. “He did!”
Chapter 11
The Shakespearean Pirate and His Mother
After Roland and Christine returned to the soundstage, I headed toward the exit. I couldn’t wait to spend more time with the people on my suspects diagram. I rounded the corner and neared the pirate ship. A single set of footsteps pounded along the deck from stern to bow.
A young man leaped to the deck railing, fists set on both hips. Dressed in a gray suit with shorts and brandishing a sword, Sonny Burkheart called to no one in particular. “Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune or to take arms against a sea of troubles…”
“Hamlet…”
“Act three, scene one.” Sonny tossed the sword on the deck. Displaying the agility of a real pirate, he grabbed a rope and swung to the ground beside me.
“When Hollywood takes on Shakespeare, you’ll be more than ready.”
“Hope so. I’ve appeared in seven Shakespearean plays already, mostly as ‘the child in the back.’ I swallowed my pride because I wanted to be around Shakespearean actors and learn from them.”
I gestured toward the swinging rope. “If that doesn’t work out, you could make Tarzan pictures.”
Sonny snickered. “You blowing this joint already?”
“I have to get back to the hotel and revise a couple of scenes.”
“Give me a love scene with Christine Brody, will you?”
I laughed. We left the ship and headed for the exit. Sonny’s interest in Shakespeare showed he was more than a mere child actor. “You’re serious about acting?”
“You ain’t just whistlin’ Dixie. If I can get out of my contract with Carville Studios, Jack Warner’s getting ready to produce A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
Near the front gate, two teenage girls dressed as circus performers in revealing white tops and black tights approached, their eyes locked on Sonny. They whispered to each other and giggled.
One of the girls waved as they passed. “Hi, Sonny.”
He bowed with overt theatricality. “Hello there, dolls.”
They laughed and walked away.
Sonny pulled his yo-yo from his pocket and demonstrated a trick I learned as a kid. “Walk the dog.” He snapped his wrist, and the yo-yo skipped along as we walked. “How old were you when you decided to follow your dream, Mr. Donovan?”
“At your age, my dream was to marry Laura Wilson. I’m still chasing that.”
He flicked his wrist again, and the yo-yo snapped into his hand. “Writing wasn’t a calling for you?”
“I read a lot as a kid, until Laura moved into our neighborhood. I didn’t become a writer until my late twenties. I wanted to be a gumshoe.”
At the gate, the picketers were gathered under a large tree. Across from the entrance was a man with a hot-dog cart.
“You hungry? I’ll buy you a dog.”
“You’re a big spender, Mr. Donovan.” Sonny laughed and checked his watch. “Ma should be by in a few minutes, but sure.”
We dodged traffic and made it across the street. I bought two hot dogs and tossed him one. We found shade on a bench beneath a green ash tree. I risked a bite. It wasn’t as good as a New York dog, but it wasn’t that bad either.
“You should get yourself a car, if you’re going to be in town awhile. I mean in L.A., everyone drives a heap.”
“Maybe I’ll rent one.”
“Sure.” Sonny unwrapped his hot dog and devoured half with two large bites. He swallowed. “Why’d you want to become a gumshoe? Dangerous work and long hours. You do it to meet dames?”
“I grew up in not the best of neighborhoods. Back then I saw the world as divided between good guys and bad guys. Cops were the good guys, so I became a cop.”
Sonny broke off a piece of the bun and tossed crumbs to a handful of sparrows. “I guess now that you’re older, you don’t see things quite the same.”
“Poverty and lack of hope sometimes drive people to make desperate decisions, but it doesn’t mean they’re bad people.”
I finished my hot dog before Sonny. He seemed the unlikeliest of suspects. His name was on the list, but he had a longer spoke than his mother. “How well did you know Eric?”
“Well enough to realize what a bastard he was.” Sonny landed a soft punch to my arm. “I never met anyone with enough guts to smash him in the nose.”
“I shouldn’t have done that.” If I hadn’t I wouldn’t have become a suspect, at least in Gus’s eyes.
Sonny swallowed another bite and let out a belch. “Come on. You’re not fooling me. You were a private dick. Bet you got in plenty of scrapes in your day.”
“A few.” I pointed to the scar that Laura’s old man gave me the day I taught him a lesson about slapping Laura.
Sonny finished his dog, tossed the final crumbs to the birds, and balled up the wrapper. “Who do you think killed Eric?”
I shrugged.
“When I first heard what happened, I thought Todd plugged his brother to take over the studio. Can you imagine that? Such a scenario would make Shakespeare proud.” Sonny tossed the hot-dog wrapper into a trash can beside the bench. “Todd doesn’t chase dames, drink, or gamble like his brother did, unless you count playing the horses from time to time.”
I learned during my Pinkerton days that the mob owned more than a few racetracks. “What does he do for fun?”
Sonny cocked his head. “What’s with the third degree?”
“Can’t shake my gumshoe days, I guess.”
“Todd’s dated a few actresses. Not the quantity or quality Eric did, mind you, but that’s because his one true love is the movie business.”
“I guess he’ll take over the studio after Norman retires?”
Sonny snorted laughter. “Retires. That’s rich. The old ma
n will retire when they bury him six feet under.”
Two elderly ladies walked up, whispering to each other.
One nudged the other. “I told you it was him, Ethel.”
Her companion whipped out an autograph book and pen. “Would you sign my book, Sonny?”
“Of course, ma’am.” The young actor accepted the book.
The old woman gushed with praise. “You were always such a sweet boy in the movies.”
He signed the book, handed it and the pen back, and winked. “Appearances can be deceiving.”
The woman snickered. “Oh, you scoundrel.” She stuffed the book in her purse. “Well, see you at the movies.”
She and her companion walked on muttering about Sonny.
“I bet you have your mother to thank for your career.”
“If it wasn’t for Ma, I’d still be chasing ice trucks on Flatbush. She moved us to Hollywood when I was just a kid. It can get annoying sometimes, how she comes across to certain people, you know, aggressive and such, but hey, it pays the bills.”
“Sounds like you’re her life.”
“Yeah, it’s a shame ’cause, well, you’ve seen her. I mean, she’s a looker when she puts her mind to it. She deserves someone in her life besides a kid. Someone kind and respectable.”
I liked Sonny and felt like a heel asking the kid personal questions, but I also didn’t want to be a suspect in a murder investigation. “I heard some talk that Eric and your mother…”
“No!” Sonny jumped to his feet.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.” Maybe I’d stepped over the line.
“I get what you’re saying, what others have said about how far Ma will go for my career.” He balled his fists. “She wouldn’t, not with Eric, not with anyone.”
A dark blue Model A with its top down drove up and pulled to the curb. With the motor running, Sonny’s mother, Angie, waved.
Sonny’s anger was still apparent as I followed him to the car.
Angie checked her appearance in the rearview mirror and fluffed her hair. “Sorry I’m late, Sonny. My dentist appointment lasted longer than I expected. Bet you’re hungry.”
With lipstick, a touch of rouge, and more than a hint of cleavage, no way had Angie been to a dentist. That, however, hardly made her a murderer. She was an attractive single woman, with auburn hair and a figure with curves in all the right places. I guessed she didn’t want her son to know everything she did while he was working on a picture.
“It’s okay, Ma, Mr. Donovan bought me lunch.” Sonny climbed in and slammed the door.
“That was kind of you.” Angie batted her lashes.
“Wasn’t much for a growing kid, just a hot dog.”
Angie shifted in her seat, showing more cleavage. “You’re a nice man, Mr. Donovan.”
“Call me, Jake.”
Angie’s eyes sparkled. “Can I drop you anywhere, Jake?”
This might be my best chance to get to know her and decide whether she could have returned home with Sonny then gone back to the party and climbed into Eric’s bed. “I’m staying at the Hollywood Hotel. I can walk—”
“We’re going that way. Climb in.” She thumbed toward the backseat. “Sonny, ride in back. Mr. Donovan will be more comfortable up front.”
Sonny mumbled something, climbed out, and slipped into the backseat. He slammed the door.
I climbed into the front seat, hoping to get to know the woman better.
Angie’s auburn hair fluttered in the breeze as she drove. One of a detective’s biggest skills was the ability to listen. I learned early on, as a writer, to study people’s mannerisms and voice inflections to create characters who were more realistic.
I listened and watched Sonny’s mother rave about the changes I’d made to Midnight Wedding and compliment Christine, Laura, and Roland. She barely mentioned her son’s small role. To my surprise, she didn’t display any of the bossy stage-mother behavior I’d pictured.
I complimented Sonny’s grasp of Shakespeare, and Angie’s face brightened. She talked with pride about her kid. Could she use her charms on a bum like Eric to get what she wanted?
Angie parked in front of the Hollywood Hotel.
I stepped from the car. “Thank you for the ride, Miss Burkheart.”
She flipped her hair, which shimmered in the midday sun. “Angie.”
Sonny climbed into the front seat, grumbling something barely audible. He still had a chip on his shoulder over my suggestion of how far his mother had gone to advance his career.
“See you around, Jake.” With a friendly wave, Angie drove off.
I rode the elevator, trying to sort through the information I’d learned from my visit to the studio. I unlocked the door to my suite, stepped inside, and froze.
Annabelle Church rose from the desk chair with an impatient pout. “I’d almost given up on you returning.”
A stylish white dress with orange sleeves had replaced her blue sergeant’s uniform. Her hair appeared freshly styled, and she wore makeup.
Annabelle was the last person I wanted to see, not because she was the lead detective in a murder case where I was a suspect, but because of her odd clingy behavior the day before. I hung my hat on the coatrack. “Why are you here?”
“Fine, thank you, and you?” Her playful behavior vanished when she tugged on my sleeve. “What’s that stain?”
I checked the back of my arm. A quarter-sized brown circle on my suit coat looked like blood, but it came from Christine. I wiped across the stain and slipped my finger into my mouth. “Chocolate.”
“You’re getting sloppy, Jake.”
Annabelle still hadn’t said why she was in my hotel room or how she got there. She gestured to the balcony. “Can we sit outside?”
“Sure.” On the balcony, we sat in the afternoon shadows. I scooted my chair a bit farther from hers. Two cigarette butts with her shade of lipstick lay crushed on the floor. She didn’t smoke back in the day.
She lit a Camel and gestured toward the parking lot with her lighter. “I was on the balcony when Angie Burkheart dropped you off. Just like the old days, Jake. You make friends easily, especially with hot-looking dames.”
“I needed a lift back to the hotel.”
“This is L.A. You should get a car.”
“So I’ve been told.”
The Hollywood sign looked down from the Santa Monica Mountains. “Ever hear the story of the actress who jumped from the H?”
“Peg Entwistle.”
She inhaled and let out a plume of smoke. “I was one of the first on the scene. As a woman who’s always struggled to make it in a man’s world, I felt particular empathy for her. Still do, you know?”
For the first time since I’d entered Eric’s bedroom, Annabelle demonstrated sympathy and compassion. She seemed more like her old self. Still, I didn’t want to talk about Peg Entwistle, Eric Carville, or Gus Connolly. I wanted Annabelle and the LAPD out of my life. I tried to do the right thing by helping with the investigation, and where had it gotten me? “Did you find out who was sleeping with Eric?”
She raised an eyebrow. “I know you’re pals with Pat Lonigan. He’s been trying to get information out of me for two days.”
“Are you saying you don’t want to work with me on this?”
“Of course not!” She blew out a long plume of smoke. “We’ve got a dozen names of women Erich’d been carrying on with, but we can’t confirm anyone for the night he was shot. We did learn the gun was Eric’s, and he kept it in the drawer beside his bed.”
“Anything else?”
“Gus checked with the cabdriver. He confirmed you returned to the hotel before midnight. Then he snooped around here this morning while you were hanging out with your Hollywood pals. He talked to the desk clerk, an elevator operator, and an Italian maid, and they confirm what you told us.”
“I’m surprised Gus had time, what with following me around.”
Annabelle cocked her head. “Gus followed you?”
“Yesterday, from the hotel to dinner. He was about as subtle as that Hollywood sign.”
“I can have a talk with him, but I can’t control his personal time. I’m certain you didn’t kill Eric Carville, but Gus and the medical examiner have their doubts. You’ve got to help me convince them and everyone else in the department you’re innocent.”
All I had were suspicions, impressions, and instincts, but I wanted to give Annabelle enough to keep her and Gus busy for a few days. “The studio was having financial problems; Eric had some gambling debts.”
The smoke curled from the cigarette. “I didn’t come over just to talk about the Eric Carville murder.” She took another puff. “We were both uncomfortable yesterday. I thought we should clear the air…”
I enjoyed talking about feelings like a jockey liked to talk hair design.
“…about our past.”
“Our past?” I leaped to my feet and gripped the railing, my knuckles white. “Annabelle, you remember the past differently than I do. We only had one date—”
She stood beside me. “We went out dozens of times!”
“Damn it, we had drinks after work with friends and coworkers. I drank more often with Gus than you, and he and I don’t have a past.”
Tears welled and threatened to slide down her face. “You broke my heart when you moved to New York.”
“I didn’t know.”
Annabelle chuckled. “When did you give me a chance to say anything?”
If I told her the truth that I’d never really cared for her, merely considered her one of my drinking buddies, I risked turning her against me. “I’m sorry.”
Her words sounded clipped and angry. “Oh, okay, then everything’s square between you and me, ’cause you’re sorry.”
“It was ten years ago.”
“I didn’t carry a torch for ten years. Two years after you took off, I married a handsome, ambitious guy in the DA’s office.”
“Congratulations.”
“His ambitions extended to bedding women in his office.”
She and Gus both had failed marriages. “I’m sorry.”
“Quit saying ‘I’m sorry’!” Annabelle crushed the cigarette next to the two others and went inside.
All That Glitters Page 13
