Lady Rample and the Silver Screen

by Shéa MacLeod

  “Now I have a headache,” Lola said. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to go lie down.” And without waiting for a dismissal from Aarons, she marched from the room, cocktail in hand.

  “Well,” Aunt Butty said. Aarons and I nodded in agreement. There wasn’t much else to say.

  “Anything else you ladies can tell me about this Dorothea Caron?” Aarons asked. “Even the smallest detail could help.”

  “I’m sorry, Detective, but no. That’s all I’m privy to,” Aunt Butty said.

  I shook my head. “As I told you, I saw her in the bushes the night of the engagement party. She realized she’d been discovered and ran. That’s it. You think her death is connected to Cyril’s? Like maybe she murdered him and felt so guilty she jumped in the river and drowned herself?”

  Aarons looked like he wanted to roll his eyes. Instead, his expression remained stoic. “Cyril Brumble committed suicide. I have no doubt about that. If what your aunt says is true, then Dorothea Caron was an unstable woman. With his support gone, she probably despaired. No more to it than that.”

  But there was more to it. I was certain of it. “You said you found the receipt for a hotel in her bag. Which hotel?”

  He seemed to debate it for a moment. “I guess there’s no harm telling you. The Golden Palace Hotel. Low rent sort of place. At least by Hollywood standards. Why do you want to know?”

  “Mere curiosity,” I said blandly.

  Aarons gave me a look that said he didn’t believe me. Smart man.

  ONCE AARONS HAD LEFT, I followed Lola up the stairs and knocked on her bedroom door. “Lola?”

  “Come in.”

  I opened the door to find her seated at her vanity table, repairing her makeup. “Can I ask you something?”

  She spun around, eyes wide. “Sure. I guess.”

  “Why did you want to go shopping with my aunt and me that day? It was so last minute, and you’d only just returned from your honeymoon.”

  She shrugged. “I’d an outfit planned for a dinner party, but I couldn’t find the wrap I wanted to wear with it anywhere. So I figured I’d get a new one. I don’t like shopping alone, and since you were here...” She shrugged as if it were the simplest thing in the world and returned to painting her lips.

  I eyed her. “Are you certain that’s all it was?” I asked, voice rife with suspicion.

  “Fine. Cyril and I had a little argument the night before. He was in such a mood. I wanted to avoid him for a while.” She puckered up in the mirror. Then, apparently satisfied, tucked her lipstick away in one of the drawers.

  “I see.” Could that have been the argument the chauffeur overheard? But then he’d been certain the woman wasn’t Lola. “What did you argue about?”

  Her lips twisted into a sneer. “That’s not your business now, is it?” She got up and marched to the open bedroom door. “Please leave. I need to get ready. I’ve a meeting at the studio to attend.”

  Giving her a strained smile, I exited the room. I paused and turned around, not sure what I was going to say, but it didn’t matter. She slammed the door in my face. Maybe I deserved it, but still, it made me question her innocence. A missing wrap, my ample backside.

  I went to find Aunt Butty. She was in the kitchen, commanding Mrs. Mendez who was packing up a large picnic basket.

  “Going somewhere?” I asked.

  “Yes. We’re having an adventure,” she informed me.

  “What sort of adventure?” I asked, eyeing her with suspicion.

  “A picnic at the seaside, naturally. It’s nearly time for afternoon tea.” Which was when I noticed she was wearing a pair of eye-searing pink and yellow striped beach pajamas. In one hand she clutched a floppy straw hat large enough to act as a sail.

  Sea, sand, sun, and food. Plenty of wine, too, judging by the bottles currently wrapped in thick towels. “Sounds delightful, but I must find Carter first. I have some questions for him.”

  “Carter’s not here,” the cook informed me. “He has the day off. Went into town early this morning.”

  “Well, that tears it.” I sighed. “I guess I’ll go change. Back in a tick, Aunt B.” I paused in the doorway. “Mind if we make a stop along the way?”

  She lifted a brow. “What sort of stop.”

  “Little place called the Golden Palace Hotel.”

  “You minx! No wonder you wormed the hotel name out of Aarons. Go on.” She waved me away.

  I would have liked to ring Chaz and invite him. This was just the sort of adventure he loved. But I knew he was filming his screen test and didn’t want to disturb him.

  I quickly changed into my backless one-piece swimming costume. It had a high-necked halter top in navy blue-and-white stripes and a solid navy skirt that just skimmed the tops of my thighs. It was incredibly flattering, but of course one couldn’t drive down the road wearing such a thing, so I topped it with a pair of wide beach pajama pants in red with navy trim along the bottom. My sun hat wasn’t nearly as impressive as Aunt Butty’s but had a jaunty ribbon that matched the pants.

  Throwing a few necessities into a bag, I hurried to rejoin Aunt Butty. She was already loaded into the car and urging me to hurry up. “Daylight’s wasting, Ophelia!”

  The drive was uneventful, and soon Sam was pulling up to a small hotel that had seen better days. The style was hacienda complete with chipped, red-tile roof and peeling cream stucco. The sign was faded and what had once been no doubt lovely grounds were now beds of dried up, overgrown bushes of indeterminate origin.

  Inside was not much better. It was clean, which was all that could be said about it, but the floor was worn and creaky, the air stifling and musty, and the scent of boiled cabbage hung heavy. What a depressing place. Why would Dorothea have stayed here? Surely Cyril could have put her up somewhere nicer. Then again, Cyril had been borrowing money from Lola, so maybe he couldn’t.

  Aunt Butty strode up to the front desk and rapped her knuckles on the warped wood. The plump clerk glanced up, chewing on the corner of his wispy mustache. He actually looked excited to see someone in his lobby.

  “Welcome to the Golden Palace. May I help you ladies?” His voice was surprisingly high for such a large man.

  “Yes, I think you can,” I said, joining my aunt. “You see, a friend of ours is staying here, and we were hoping to visit her, but I simply can’t recall which room she was in.”

  He beamed. “I’ll look it up. What’s her name?”

  “Dorothea Caron,” Aunt Butty said.

  His face crumpled instantly. “Oh, you haven’t heard?”

  “Heard what?” I asked, all innocence.

  “Miss Caron died the other day.” He looked genuinely distraught.

  We made the appropriate responses of shock and sadness. “How? What happened?” I asked, still playing my role and hoping he’d offer whatever information he had.

  “I’m not sure, but I know the police were here asking about her. Wanted to see her room and all, but she’d already checked out. They said she jumped off a bridge. Suicide.”

  More gasps. I leaned forward. “But I can see you don’t believe that.”

  He glanced around as if to ensure we were alone. “No, ma’am, I do not. Don’t buy it for a hot minute.”

  Aunt Butty and I exchanged meaningful glances. “Really? Why?”

  He leaned closer. “Well, thing is you see, she got a call that night. The night they say she jumped. Took it right here.” He pointed at the black telephone perched on the counter. “She was going to stay another night, but instead she told me to get her bill ready, then went and packed her things.”

  “I wonder who called her?” Aunt Butty asked the ether.

  He shrugged. “Couldn’t say. All I know is it was a man’s voice on the line. He asked for her by name.”

  So someone who knew who she was and knew where she was staying. “Did he know her room number?”

  The young man shook his head. “After she returned to the lobby to pay her bill, I asked her
about it. It was late, you see, and it didn’t seem right—a lady going out in the middle of the night by herself. Asked if I could get her a cab.”

  “And what did she say?” I prodded.

  “She thanked me, but said she’d walk. The river wasn’t far.”

  “River?” I asked.

  “Los Angeles River. It’s a short walk from here,” he said.

  “But why would she walk to the Los Angeles River in the middle of the night?” Aunt Butty wondered. “Odd thing to do, if you ask me.”

  “Beats me,” the clerk said. “When I told her it was dangerous, she said not to worry. She was meeting a friend.”

  Meeting a friend at the very place where she supposedly jumped off a bridge and died. After receiving a phone call from an unknown man. How very mysterious. I had a bad feeling that whoever Dorothea’s friend was, was no friend at all, but a blood thirsty killer!

  AFTER WE’D THANKED the hotel clerk and got back in the car, Sam drove us to a lovely sandy beach. For an afternoon in the middle of the week, the place was surprisingly crowded. Still, Sam found a place to park and escorted us and our picnic basket down to the waterfront. He laid out a blanket, set up a massive umbrella, then told us he’d wait for us at the car. Seemed a shame for him to be stuck in the car on such a lovely day, but then everyone seemed to think we were a little crazy, wanting a day at the beach.

  “This isn’t at all what I expected,” Aunty Butty said, squinting down the coastline with disapproval. “What are those ghastly things?”

  I glanced in the direction she was staring. She wasn’t wrong. This wasn’t how I’d imagined the coast of California would look like. In the distance, up and down the beach marched rows upon rows of black, wrought iron towers stretching their ugly lengths into the sharp blue sky.

  “They’re oil derricks,” I told her.

  “Beastly things. Why on earth would they put them here? What do they do?”

  “Pull oil up out of the ground. For powering motorcars and that sort of thing.”

  “Well someone should burn them down. All of them.”

  “I’m fairly certain that would be illegal,” I said dryly.

  “Having them here should be illegal. They’re an eyesore,” Aunt Butty said, opening one of the bottles of wine while I set out Mrs. May’s feast. There were slices of cold ham between brown bread slathered with mustard, a rather odd concoction called potato salad, pickles, stuffed eggs, fresh apricots, a thermos of hot coffee, and graham cracker cake. I must admit the last one was beyond divine.

  We rushed through our picnic. Not only because of the ugliness of the oil rigs, but also because everyone kept staring at us like we were mice in a cage. It was... unsettling. I suppose they weren’t used to seeing the upper crust on their beach.

  The minute we were done, we packed up without waiting for Sam and struggled back through the sand, dragging the umbrella. The wind had changed and there was the distinct smell of burning oil wafting our way. It made my nose itch.

  At last we made it to the car, but our driver was nowhere to be seen.

  “Where do you suppose he got to?” Aunt Butty asked.

  “He couldn’t have got far,” I said. “Not without the car.” I stood on tiptoes and craned my neck to peer over the sea of parked automobiles. “I see some men playing a dice game. I bet he’s over there. I’ll go get him.”

  “Very well. I’ll go with you.” Aunt Butty set down the picnic basket and adjusted her hat.

  “You should wait here,” I argued. “Guard our things.”

  “They aren’t our things, Ophelia. And no one is going to steal them. An old umbrella and an empty picnic basket? Don’t be absurd. I’m going with you.” I recognized that steely glint in her eye. There’d be no budging her. “I want to give that chauffeur a piece of my mind. He should have waited for us by the car.”

  I sighed. “Very well.”

  I marched toward the game, Aunt Butty hot on my heels. I’d only gone a few paces when a man stepped out in front of me. He wore a brown suit with little white stripes running through it. He had a face like a hatchet and little rat eyes that gave me a distinctly unpleasant feeling.

  “Pardon me,” I said in my most imperious voice.

  “Don’t think so,” he said, giving me a once-over with those cold eyes.

  My dander went up. “Move at once!” I commanded.

  “Or what?” he asked, crossing his arms and cocking his head just a little to the right.

  I’d have liked to have given him a sock in the eye, but Aunt Butty grabbed my arm. “Ophelia.” Her voice held a note of warning.

  “What is it?”

  “Look behind you.”

  I glanced over my shoulder to see two more men standing behind us. One was very large, his belly straining at his white button-down shirt. He wore no suit jacket—appalling—and had huge patches of damp under his arms. He glared at me from under the brim of his fedora. Next to him was a slightly shorter man, but equally broad, only with muscle instead of fat. My stomach gave a flutter of unease. I turned back to Hatchet Face.

  “What is the meaning of this?”

  “Our boss would like to have a word with you, Lady Rample.”

  “How do you know my name?” I demanded. My feelings of unease grew apace.

  He leered. “I have my ways. Now come along and no one gets hurt.”

  “Oh, I’ve heard that before,” Aunt Butty huffed. “If you think we’re going with you, you’ve got another think coming, my good sir!”

  Hatchet Face sighed. “Bring them.”

  And before we could so much as let out a scream, we’d been gagged, tied, and thrust into the back of a black sedan.

  Chapter 13

  The black sedan drove for what seemed like ages, wending its way along the coast. Flashes of ocean blue peeped through the bristle of oil rigs that marched up and down in neat rows like soldiers. On the other side of the road, dry, brown hills stretched up into harsh, blue sky. Here and there a villa surrounded by greenery poked out from a cliff as if trying to grasp the sea.

  I tried to enjoy the view, such as it was, and not focus on what fate awaited us, but it was impossible. I may or may not have an overly dramatic imagination. I conjured up any number of dastardly possibilities.

  Perhaps they were white slavers who were going to sell us to a desert sheik! I tried to imagine white slavers wanting Aunt Butty. My imagination failed me. Fine. Not white slavers.

  Gangsters who thought we’d stolen their money. Why would gangsters think we’d stolen their money? The closest I’d ever come to a real-life gangster was when Lola opened her mouth.

  Hatchet Face had said his boss wanted to speak to us. Could it be that ghastly movie man who’d told me to lose weight? Surely not. Why would he send goons after me at the beach of all places?

  Could they be G-men? Sent by the government to... what? Perhaps they wanted to hold us for ransom? Or murder us! Surely American government agents didn’t do such things.

  I was getting rather nonsensical. And I was running out of ideas. Also, I was starting to work myself into a lather. I took a few deep, calming breaths and told myself not to be a ninny.

  The car pulled up in front of what was clearly a nightclub. A large neon sign, unlit in the middle of the day, proclaimed it to be the Monte Carlo. I’d been to the actual Monte Carlo. Trust me, it looked nothing like this rather dodgy, windowless brick building.

  We were ushered inside, still gagged and with our hands tied in front of us. Frankly, it was humiliating. Where were the police when you needed them?

  The two big men were left to guard the door while Hatchet Face pushed us ahead of him into the main room of the club itself. To my right, along the longest wall, was a well-stocked bar. Funny, that. Didn’t they have prohibition out west? To the left against that wall were several plush booths. To the front was a low stage, no doubt for musicians and such. And ringing the dance floor in front of the stage were about a dozen small tables with cha
irs.

  One of the booths was occupied by a lone man. He looked to be late thirties or early forties. Handsome, but in a gone-to-seed sort of way. His features had turned fleshy rather than defined, and there was a bit of extra padding around his middle. A gold pinky ring flashed in the dim overhead light. He was eating a rather large platter of steak and eggs, and there was a substantial cocktail at his elbow.

  “Hey, Boss. Brung the ladies like you asked,” Hatchet Face said, shoving us forward so hard, Aunt Butty stumbled. If only my hands were free and I had my handbag with me. I’d do to Hatchet Face what I’d done to that Louis person.

  The boss looked from Hatchet Face to us and back again. “You tied them up?” His voice was surprisingly cultured and very irritated. “What were you thinking, you palooka?”

  “Sorry, Boss, but they got a little feisty.”

  Boss set down his knife and fork and rubbed his forehead as if he suddenly had a headache. “Remove their gags and ropes. Immediately.” His voice was perfectly calm, but there was something deadly in his eyes. Like a snake that just spotted his dinner. I shuddered, but inwardly. Wasn’t going to let him or his flunkies see.

  Hatchet Face released Aunt Butty first. She spat out her gag, quivering with fury. “Well, I never!”

  “Is this how you treat ladies?” I demanded the moment I was free. “I’ll have you know we are visitors to your shores. We are members of the British aristocracy! Never in my life have I been treated in such a fashion!”

  “I’ll have you know I’m acquainted with the governor!” Aunt Butty all but shouted. I tried very hard to keep my expression bland. I knew very well that Aunt Butty had no idea who the governor of California was. “I will tell him just exactly what sort of treatment I received from your... goons.”

  A tiny smile quirked Boss’s lip. “I do apologize ladies. My goons had very specific instructions, which they obviously ignored. They’ll be dealt with.”

  I swear, Hatchet Face wilted.