by Shéa MacLeod
I quickly dictated a message. “The musician’s name is Hale Davis. Please tell him that plans have changed, and I’ve been slightly delayed. He can visit the villa at any time and use the telephone to ring me here in Los Angeles.” I quickly gave Mr. Singh the number, although I doubted Hale would use it. He was too poor to afford a call, and too proud to reverse the charges or leave me to pay them. It was frustrating to me, but I understood.
“Certainly, my lady. I shall deliver your message post haste.”
Relieved that Hale would soon have my details, I hung up and made my way back to Aunt Butty in the living room. I found her snoring lightly, an empty glass sitting on the end table next to her. Apparently, the long trip, the heat, and the alcohol had done their work. She was out cold.
Cyril reappeared in the doorway. “Oh, dear. I am sorry. I hadn’t meant to be away so long, but Lola... she’s very delicate, you know.”
“Yes,” I murmured. “I could see that.” I wasn’t entirely sure I’d managed to keep the sarcasm out of my tone. Lola seemed about as delicate as a dandelion. “I’m afraid the travel has worn out my aunt.” I waved my hand toward the sleeping Butty who let out a tremendous snorting snore.
Cyril repressed his merriment, but only just. “She would be appalled to be caught sleeping. I will have Sam carry her to her room.”
“She’ll be disappointed she missed that,” I said. “She’s always dreamed of having a handsome, well-muscled young man carrying her about.”
“Don’t we all, my dear!” I could hear Cyril’s chuckle all the way down the hall.
Chapter 3
I found Cyril’s comment... interesting. Did Lola know her husband-to-be found other men attractive? Not that I cared. Love is love, as far as I’m concerned. But it would be a scandal-and-a-half should word get out. It would probably ruin Cyril’s career. Maybe Lola’s, too. A blonde bombshell who couldn’t keep a man? Unheard of!
Which might explain their hastily arranged marriage. Was Cyril trying to hide the truth behind a sham marriage the way so many did? Was Lola in on it? Or was the studio forcing this marriage on them in order to protect an asset? According to Aunt Butty, the studios practically ran not only Hollywood, but Los Angeles itself.
Still, I didn’t have time to mull it over for long. Cyril and Lola were throwing an engagement party that evening down by the pool. I do enjoy a good party, but I’d hoped that since we’d only arrived that day, we’d be allowed to relax a bit before the festivities began. Apparently not.
Maddie had got out my Saxe-blue silk number from Chanel. She helped me slip it on and I immediately felt like the belle of the proverbial ball. Growing up, I’d never had such a magnificent gown, but Aunt Butty had introduced me to the world of designer couture.
The dress was sleeveless with a wide V-neck in the front and dipped to the waist in the back. The skirt was gored to flare from the knees, creating a fabulous sense of movement. And somehow, despite the fact it was mostly form fitting, it managed to make me look sleek and sophisticated rather than lumpy. Perhaps it was the full custom corset which sucked everything into place and smoothed the lumps and bumps. In any case, I did look rather fantastic, if I do say so myself.
Once dressed, I paused by the mirror to ensure my lipstick was in order and gasped in horror. “Maddie, what is this?” I whirled around and pointed to my chin where a giant, red pimple had appeared as if by some horrible dark magic.
Maddie squinted at my chin. “It’s a spot, m’lady.”
“But I’m...” I did a quick mental calculation. “But I’m thirty-five!”
“I’m aware, m’lady.” Her tone was very dry, edging on sarcastic. Wench.
“But I am far too old to have spots!” That was something one left behind with the teenage years, surely.
She had the unmitigated gall to roll her eyes. “People of all ages get spots. Change in climate, no doubt.”
“But what do I do? I can’t go out looking like this.” Not among the starlets and movers and shakers of Hollywood. Good, gosh! The very idea.
Typically, I’m not one to care much what other people think, but I was feeling a bit out of my element. Being forced to face Cyril’s friends with an enormous spot on my face was giving me palpitations.
Maddie sighed heavily. “I’ll figure something out.”
“Quickly.”
Another eye-roll. “Yes, m’lady. I think I can hide it.” She grabbed a pot of vanishing cream and smoothed it over the spot. Next, she dabbed an ample amount of ivory foundation on it, followed by an inordinate amount of powder. “There.” She waved toward the mirror.
Alas, the spot was still there! A giant lump upon my chin. But at least it wasn’t an enormous red thing glaring at me. I sighed heavily. “It’ll do.”
She pursed her lips. “That it will, m’lady.”
“Hopefully it’s dark enough out there no one will notice.” I had little hope of that since it was still light outside. Perhaps I could dally until the sun went down. But cocktails beckoned. And so did Aunt Butty.
We had adjoining rooms, identically decorated in the same pink as the rugs and furniture downstairs. I wondered it was Cyril or Lola that was so fond of pink. The wallpaper in both rooms was a pale pink with bouquets of blue roses scattered over it. The carpets covered the entire floor and were solid rose pink with insets of blue and yellow geometric patterns in the corners. Both bedroom sets were of carved walnut imported from France. Aunt Butty’s featured an art deco thistle. Mine, a fan shape.
Aunt Butty’s imperious knock on the connecting door summoned me forth, regardless of whether or not I was ready to face Cyril’s guests. “Ophelia, stop dilly-dallying. We’ve a party to get to! If I miss Gary Cooper, I shall never forgive you.” She’d all but swooned earlier when Cyril informed us the famous actor would be at the party.
“Coming, Aunt Butty.”
I didn’t bother with a handbag as I could always retire to my room if I needed to fix my hair or makeup. And it was still quite warm out, so I decided not to take a wrap, either.
Leaving Maddie to her own devices—which no doubt involved a romance novel pilfered from my library back home—I joined Aunt Butty in the hall. My aunt’s eyes were sparkling with excitement. Her dress was also blue, but the similarities stopped there. Hers was a midnight blue, covered in sequins, and topped by a capelet in the same color. She wore a matching turban on her head—decorated with an enormous bejeweled peacock pin—from which poked a few artfully arranged gray curls. It was actually rather reserved for my aunt.
“Just think,” she said, “we’re going to meet movie stars!”
“Haven’t you met all sorts of famous people?” I asked, surprised by her eagerness. Aunt Butty wasn’t one to be swayed by fame or fortune. A handsome face, yes. Money or rank, not at all.
“Yes, but not Hollywood people. They’re entirely different from Broadway people.”
I had no idea what to say to that. I’d never met either kind of person, nor did I know what the difference was beyond the obvious stage versus screen.
The French doors in the living room had been opened wide, allowing guests to wander around the pool and gardens. Small tables draped with linens stood sentinel about the pool, graced with candles for atmosphere. A quartet played jazz music in one corner while black-and-white garbed servers circulated trays of drinks and hors d'oeuvres.
I helped myself to an amber-colored cocktail. One sip told me it was a Vieux Carré. Whiskey cocktail? I approve!
“Goodness,” Aunt Butty murmured, “there must be over a hundred people here. However did he manage to fit them all in?”
“Ladies!” Cyril came toward us with his arms outstretched. He wore a red paisley smoking jacket over black dress trousers. Likely in an attempt to look relaxed and sophisticated. Instead he was flushed and sweaty. “Please, come. Let me introduce you to my friends.”
He stopped at the first cluster of party goers and introduced us around. There was an older woman in a f
loral dress named Marie Dressler. She looked to be about sixty-something with a wide mouth and deep lines about her face. I hadn’t heard of her, but everyone else treated her as if she were royalty, and Cyril informed us she was the top film star of the year which I found astonishing. Everyone in Hollywood seemed so... beautiful. Ridiculously so. Yet, here was Marie Dressler with her hefty frame, large nose, and booming laugh, the most popular of all of them. I liked her instantly and determined to see any of her movies that made their way to London.
There were a couple of other people whose names and faces I promptly forgot. Then there was a handsome, dark-haired young man who was called Wayne Palmer. He gave me a half smile, but all the time his attention was elsewhere as if he were looking for someone.
Cyril then led us around the pool toward another group of people—mostly men—who were laughing uproariously. In the center of the group, Lola stood, beaming upon her subjects. Clearly, she was a woman who enjoyed the spotlight. And she did it well in a cream-colored, bias-cut dress by Vionnet that showed off her lush figure to perfection.
“Oh, Cyril, there you are,” she called. “Gary has just been telling me the most marvelous story about Frankie. You must hear it.”
“She means the director Frank Borzage,” Cyril murmured. “He just directed a film starring Cooper. A Farewell to Arms. I don’t know why she insists on calling him Frankie. No one else does.” He raised his voice, “Yes, my love. Coming. In a moment.”
“Is that Gary Cooper?” I asked. There was a flutter somewhere in the region of my stomach. I guess my aunt wasn’t the only one excited about movie stars.
“Oh, yes. I’ll introduce you if you like,” Cyril said.
“Oh, my,” Aunt Butty murmured, “isn’t he the bee’s knees.”
He was, rather. Far more ruggedly handsome than he was in the pictures. Which seemed impossible. I resisted the urge to fan myself.
“I’ll be right back,” Cyril assured us. Then he pushed through the gathered men to lean over Lola.
Neither Aunt Butty nor I paid him any mind. We were too busy watching Gary Cooper. Heavens above, the man was a looker! He was ridiculously tall—no doubt I’d only come to about his shoulder—with just the slightest wave to his brown hair and the most piercing blue eyes I’d ever seen. When he smiled, he did so with a slight quirk to his lips that no doubt sent female hearts everywhere to fluttering. I know it did mine. And, if Aunt Butty’s reaction was anything to go by, hers did as well.
“We should go introduce ourselves,” Aunt Butty suggested, tugging my arm. “No doubt Lola will be sending poor Cyril off to fetch her a drink or whatnot. Shall we?”
“And how!”
But before we could get through the crush of people to Cooper, he said something to Cyril and Lola, then disappeared through the crowd.
“Dash it all!” I wailed. “He’s leaving.”
“Surely not,” Aunt Butty cried. “We just got here.”
We scurried after him, while trying to appear as if we were just leisurely chasing a movie star. It was perhaps ridiculous, two women of an age hustling after some young buck. But what can you do? This was Gary Cooper. If nothing else, I could at least get his autograph. Or speak to him for a moment. Oh, the bragging rights it would get us back home.
We followed him through the grounds to a flight of narrow flagstone steps that led up to the front drive. I was out of breath as we reached the top, Aunt Butty puffing behind me. Alas, we were just in time to watch Cooper climb into a green Duesenberg and speed off down the drive in a cloud of dust and gravel.
“Damnation!” Aunt Butty said.
“Language, Aunt!”
“Oh, don’t you language me, Ophelia,” she snapped. “I’ve heard you utter worse.”
She wasn’t wrong.
“Well, there’s nothing for it. Back to the party, I suppose. I imagine there are plenty more handsome men.” She turned and made her way back down the steps.
“Too bad Chaz wasn’t here,” I murmured to myself. “He’d have been thrilled.”
I paused for one last look at the back of the Duesenberg just disappearing around a bend, then turned to follow her. As I did, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. With a frown, I focused on a thick clump of bushes. There. Something moved, and it wasn’t the wind. Much too large for a bird.
Instead of heading back to the party, I walked toward the bushes, curiosity getting the better of me. But before I got there, someone stepped out of them. She—it was definitely a woman—turned and for just a moment I caught a glimpse of her face: pale, with wide eyes haunted by dark circles. Her expression was one of... I wasn’t sure, but it made me uneasy. There was determination to it. But something darker, too.
She caught sight of me and let out a startled, “Oh!” Then she turned and ran, disappearing into the thick tree growth that surrounded the property.
“What the deuce?” I started to go after her, but it was no use. She moved like the wind, and I was in heels. I shook my head. Probably just a reporter trying to get something juicy for her gossip column.
As I worked my way back toward the party, I passed an open window. Sheer curtains covered it, so I couldn’t see anything more than shadows beyond it. Not that I noticed much. I was more intent on grabbing another cocktail and having a chat with Aunt Butty. I would have walked right on past if not for the loud voices coming from behind that curtain.
“Don’t lie to me!” That was definitely Cyril. I’d recognize his accent anywhere.
“It’s not what you think.” The tone was pleading, but the voice softer so I couldn’t tell who it was. I crept closer to the window. Curiosity is my weakness, I’m not ashamed to admit.
“I’m not a fool, Carter. I know what I saw. I’ve had enough,” Cyril snapped.
Ah, so it was the butler Cyril was arguing with. But what were they arguing about? It didn’t sound like a typical squabble between employer and domestic. It sounded more... personal.
“Please, Cyril. Please! I don’t—”
“Enough. I want you out of here.”
My jaw dropped. Cyril was firing his butler? But why?
“I’ll pack my bags immediately.” Carter’s tone was stiff.
Cyril sighed heavily. “No need for that. Just promise me you’ll stop seeing him.”
“I will, Cyril. I will. It’s already done. I promise you’ll...”
Whatever else he might have said was cut off as loud voices echoed from down the path. Eager not to be caught eavesdropping on my host, I eased out of the bushes and back onto the walkway as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Just as I turned to go, I noticed there was another lurker who’d been listening in on the conversation between Cyril and his butler. I couldn’t have sworn to it as it was dark, but I was fairly certain it was Wayne Palmer. Dashed odd place for him to be hanging about. And what was with everyone hiding in bushes tonight?
I continued on my way, mind a jumble of disjointed thoughts. There had been something about that argument that left me feeling very uneasy. If only I could put my finger on it.
I shook my head, dislodging my maudlin thoughts. It was a simple argument, that was all. It wasn’t like they were threatening to kill each other. I laughed at my overwrought imagination and went to find Aunt Butty.
I rejoined the party and helped myself to another cocktail. But I couldn’t quite forget the woman, or the expression on her face, nor could I quite put the argument out of my mind. Something cold settled in the pit of my stomach.
Chapter 4
“How would you ladies like a tour of the studio?” Cyril asked us the next morning. Despite having been up 'til all hours, he looked fresh as a daisy and twice as bright, dapperly dressed in a neat, light-gray suit which was much more attractive on him than the previous night’s outfit.
“Sounds brilliant,” I said, pouring myself a third cup of coffee. I might have overindulged just slightly. Those cocktails had been rather strong, and perhaps I hadn’t had enough to e
at what with the running after Gary Cooper. I forked another bite of eggs and toast and forced myself to eat despite the dangerous rumblings of my stomach.
“Oh, perhaps we can catch sight of that gorgeous Gary Cooper,” Aunt Butty said, rubbing her hands together. “What a dish.”
“Ah, unfortunately, he won’t be at the studio today,” Cyril apologized. “I did mean to introduce you last night, but—”
Aunt Butty waved a beringed hand. “No worries. What will be will be. No doubt we’ll meet other interesting people during our time here.” And by “interesting,” I was fairly certain she meant handsome.
“Oh, certainly,” Cyril said brightly. “William Powell, Boris Karloff, Myrna Loy... you never know who you’ll run into!” He seemed as excited as we were, despite having worked among these people for years. “I plan to leave in an hour. Is that enough time for you ladies to get ready?”
“Of course!” Aunt Butty declared. She shoved back her half-eaten breakfast and hustled from the room like the Hounds of Hell were on her heels.
I finished at a more leisurely pace before making my own way to my room. It was only once I had Cyril’s butler call for Maddie and the bedroom door was closed that I began my mad dash to get ready. I was done and downstairs with five minutes to spare. Possibly a world record.
The drive into Hollywood took a little over twenty minutes. Along the way, Cyril entertained us by pointing out the homes of various important denizens. Mostly, they were hidden from the road by thick foliage or impressive gates.
“While you’re here, you’ll have to visit Greystone Mansion,” he informed us. “It’s not far from here and is quite a stunner. Not to mention, it’s supposedly haunted.”
“How thrilling,” Aunt Butty said. “We must put that on the itinerary, Ophelia.”
After leaving the hills, we passed through acres of orange groves baking under the late summer sun. This late in the season, the trees were bare of fruit, but the leaves shone green and glossy and the deep shade beneath them beckoned.
