“I bumped into Bette Davis, who told me about an odd garment that arrived when she was visiting Orry-Kelly at Warner Brothers. It turned out to be something Gwendolyn had made.”
“She works there now?”
“No. It was a freelance job for an anonymous customer who asked her to mail it back to the same post office box. Nothing to do with Warners, and yet that’s where it appeared. When Bette told Gwendolyn about it, I got a strong hunch. The measurements for the dress Gwendolyn made were 38–38–38. Women don’t have those sorts of measurements.”
Nelson’s eyes looped around the nightclub. “But men do.”
“That post office box was where Gwendolyn sent the dress.” The audience burst into applause. Gwendolyn glanced over to Kathryn and frowned. Kathryn made a keep away hand signal. “Did you find out who that box belongs to?”
Hoyt started to knead his forehead. “The Ding-a-ling Toy Company.”
Kathryn felt her heart drop. So much for my hunches.
“But they’ve only had it a month or so,” he continued. “Prior to that, it belonged to a Jack Humboldt.”
“That name doesn’t ring a bell.”
The Flynn grin resurfaced. “A few months back, Hoover came into town with a full agenda. All the anti-Commie stuff with the studios, the HUAC, Chaplin. When he got there, he had trouble with his briefcase. He’s got this huge thing he totes around—like the ones doctors carry on house calls. It has these two big locks that open with separate keys, but one of them jammed. He messed around with it but couldn’t get it open. His assistant, Clyde, had a go, but he couldn’t do it either. Hoover got more and more frustrated, but none of us dared volunteer until finally he said, ‘There’s got to be at least one man here who’s good at picking locks.’”
“You?”
“I’m good with mechanical stuff. The damned thing refuses to budge, so I get more physical with it. I start to break a sweat when suddenly, it bursts open—boom! Krakatoa! So naturally I get on my knees to pick it all up. You should have seen the way he threw himself on top of all these papers and folders and letters. I only managed to pick up a few things before he ordered me back to my seat, but I saw a pile of envelopes bound up in an elastic band, and the top one was addressed to . . .” He gestured toward Kathryn.
“Jack Humboldt . . . J.H. . . . John Edgar Hoover.”
“ . . . who is very friendly with Jack Warner.”
Kathryn thought about Bette’s story about the package landing in Orry-Kelly’s office marked “Jack.” She shook her head as things started to fall into place. “So the head of the FBI likes to—” She couldn’t bring herself to finish such an outrageous sentence.
“Everybody has a personal life,” Nelson said, “but not him. Leastways, none that I’ve observed. He’s the most tightly closed book I’ve ever encountered.”
They let Miss Vilma’s gravelly final note of “Summertime” waft over them.
“You said you wanted to leave the Bureau.” Kathryn fancied she could see Nelson’s eyes harden as the lights of the club dimmed. “Was that just a heat-of-the-moment declaration, or did you mean it?”
“I think maybe I’ve found my way out.”
“Blackmailing the head of the FBI?” Just the thought of it made Kathryn’s innards churn.
“I’m going to have to play it smarter than that.”
As the Licketysplitters thundered their applause, Kathryn felt Nelson’s breath fill her ear.
“This is a transvestite joint, isn’t it?”
“You said to pick somewhere unexpected. Are you mad?”
“I probably should be.” She heard him chuckle. “You really are one hell of a gal.”
A part of Kathryn melted. Nobody had ever said that to her before. It wasn’t the most flattering compliment a typical guy could pay a typical girl, but here she was sitting with an FBI agent in a cross-dresser bar talking about hoodwinking J. Edgar Hoover. Kathryn Massey had passed “typical” so far back it wasn’t even in her rearview mirror.
CHAPTER 35
Gwendolyn ran her nail around the edges of the brown paper package sitting on her dining room table. The last time she received something like this, it contained an anonymous request to make a dress measuring 38–38–38.
The possibility that she’d sewn a dress for J. Edgar Hoover made her cringe; the prospect of making another horrified her. If this client really was him, she probably wasn’t in any position to refuse. And besides, it was just a theory, she told herself. Kathryn could be wrong.
She peeled back the Scotch tape and opened the contents. A letter fell out. Gwendolyn read it, then read it again before inserting it back inside the package, folding up the sides, and charging outside.
* * *
When Kathryn answered her door, Gwendolyn held the parcel aloft, then brushed past her. “He wants a replacement, same as the first.” She pulled out the letter.
“He wants a second one because he never got the first,” Kathryn said.
Gwendolyn pointed to the return address. “This isn’t the same post office box.”
“He’d be careful not to leave a trail. Are you going to make it?”
Gwendolyn shrugged as she eyed the package. It was kind of exciting when I didn’t know who it was for. But now, it’s just flat-out scary. “I won’t be deciding tonight. I’m on my way out to visit Bertie at work.”
“At nine thirty on a Tuesday?”
“She said the evening shifts are horribly boring after nine o’clock, so I told her I’d keep her company.”
Gwendolyn hadn’t been there the Sunday afternoon that too many whiskey sours around a cribbage board resulted in Kathryn blabbing to Bertie about the pillowcase full of shredded bills buried in the old victory garden. To her credit, Bertie ran straight to Gwendolyn’s door and promised she’d do everything she could to pay off her debt. After moving to the Garden’s cheapest room, she sold her DeSoto to Marcus and pawned all her jewelry. Gwendolyn could barely believe it when Bertie arrived on her doorstep with a check for ten dollars and a solemn promise to repay every last penny. At ten bucks a month, it would take her twenty-five years, but the gesture was touching, sincere, and admirable, so Gwendolyn accepted the check.
“You’re not walking there, are you?” Kathryn asked.
“It’s just the other end of the Strip.”
“The hell you will!” Kathryn grabbed her pocketbook. “Until they catch the Black Dahlia killer, no single woman walking the streets of LA at night can assume anything. I’m coming with you.”
* * *
Bertie had always been a night owl, so she happily took the evening shift at the new ice cream parlor at the western end of the Sunset Strip. With its vivid red, pink, and white décor, Wil Wright’s reminded Gwendolyn of the one she used to visit as a kid back in Florida. The white metal chairs had red and white striped leather cushions and the round tables were topped with pink and cream marble. At night, extra-bright lighting lit up the bold red and white awning so that nobody on the Strip could miss the place.
When Gwendolyn and Kathryn walked inside, the only person in the place was Bertie.
“You came!” She threw aside her copy of The Snake Pit and beamed a mouthful of crooked, oversized teeth. “This place has been a graveyard since seven thirty. They’ve started this new campaign—‘Tonight, leave the dessert to Wil Wright’s’—but they needn’t have bothered. The Black Dahlia killed off all our evening traffic. So, girls, what’ll it be?”
Kathryn chose a fresh peach sundae, and Gwendolyn ordered a dish of chocolate burnt-almond ice cream.
“You picked an auspicious night,” Bertie said, preparing their orders. “Howard Hughes should be here soon. You’ve met him, haven’t you?”
By the time Bertie was finished with their orders, a pack of teenagers rushed through the door. The tallest one waved a five-dollar bill and instructed his pals to order “anything and everything you want. We ain’t leaving till there’s no change left!”
&nbs
p; “Hey, moneybags.” Gwendolyn nudged him. “Don’t forget to leave a tip for the gal behind the counter. She’s a real trouper.” She took their orders to a table in the bay window that looked out across the Strip.
Over the past months, Gwendolyn had come to understand that Licketysplitters didn’t necessarily want to look like women; they wanted to feel like them. She was wondering now if Hoover was like that, and if sewing a second 38–38–38 dress would lead her into darker, deeper waters than she’d prefer to wade through, when Kathryn launched into an entirely different subject.
“Did you read Winchell today? That excruciating piece about Communist infiltration of Hollywood?”
“He’s so spiteful, isn’t he?”
“Meaner than a schoolyard bully with a slingshot, but at the end of yesterday’s column, he included a blind item about how a certain ‘Loaded Lou’ and ‘Separated Sue’ are carrying on their white-hot affair at the sprawling home of ‘Retired Rita’ but warning them they’d better be careful because both Separated Sue’s boss and her soon-to-be-ex have set two different teams of private eyes on her.”
“Someone’s asking for trouble,” Gwendolyn said.
“I have a theory that Separated Sue is Rita Hayworth. Her boss is Harry Cohn and her soon-to-be-ex is Orson.”
Gwendolyn thought about the affair Kathryn had with Welles before the war, and wondered if a vestige of jealousy was fueling this conversation. Kathryn had always maintained she was long over anything she’d felt for Orson, and if she was going to start something with this Hoyt guy, maybe she really had.
“Who do you think Loaded Lou is?” Gwendolyn asked.
“Howard Hughes. He’s pretty chummy with Marion Davies, and she hasn’t made a picture since way before the war.”
“Retired Rita?”
“Exactly, and she hardly ever uses that huge white elephant down on Santa Monica Beach. It all fits. And Howard is about to walk in here, so—”
“Did anything happen after that kiss?” The question felt like it shot out of Gwendolyn’s mouth on its own accord.
Kathryn reared back. “What kiss?”
“The one with Nelson, that night at the Ambassador.” It was hard to tell if Kathryn was blushing, or was it just the light reflecting off the pink marble table tops. “I know it’s none of my business,” Gwendolyn added. “I’m just a mite concerned, is all.”
Kathryn screwed her face up like a child begging forgiveness. “Would it make me the worst person in the world if I wanted it to?”
“Hardly.” Gwendolyn tried a smile designed to soften Kathryn’s guilt. “He’s handsome and all, and that whole forbidden fruit thing is tempting. I get it. But I was watching you that night at the Frolics. I saw the way you two were with each other.”
“What did you see?”
“Heat. Electricity. Temptation.”
“I hated him when I first met him.” Kathryn shoved a spoonful of peach into her mouth. “And for the longest time after.”
“But now?”
“He’s disillusioned and wants out. That’s what all this dress stuff is for. Finding him a way to leave the FBI.”
“But have you thought about how Marcus will feel when he learns of this? He loves you more than anybody, but aren’t you afraid this will cause more damage than it’s worth?”
“Of course I’ve thought about it.” Kathryn toyed with her sundae. “The HUAC is out for Hollywood’s blood, and the FBI is supplying the ammo. This whole industry could go under, and Marcus right along with it. Believe me, I’ve thought about all that.”
“Where we stand in this will count for a lot.”
“I KNOW!” Kathryn’s outburst captured the attention of the teen boys, who gawked at them for a moment, then burst into stifled giggles. Gwendolyn heard the jangle of the store’s front door bell and watched Kathryn’s eyes as she saw who’d entered. They tracked Hughes’ path to the counter, where he ordered a scoop of coconut, a scoop of peppermint, and four macaroons on the side.
While Bertie put on the finishing touches, Hughes surveyed the boys for a while, then noticed Gwendolyn and Kathryn. To Gwendolyn’s surprise, he smiled.
“Mind if I join you ladies?”
He winced slightly as he sat down on one of the wire chairs. Kathryn drew in a breath to go fishing for gossip, but his attention was fixed on Gwendolyn. “I never did ask you how things went in Mexico.”
For the flight back from Mazatlán, Hughes took on a copilot and three aviation engineers, and had been so preoccupied with airplane talk that he barely even acknowledged her.
“It went fine, thanks,” Gwendolyn said.
“Did you track Tattler down?”
Gwendolyn swirled the spoon around her dish of melting ice cream. “Turns out he was innocent of any wrongdoing, so that trip put my mind to rest. You were busy on the flight home and I never really got a chance to thank you.”
“I got your note,” Hughes said around a macaroon.
“Still,” Gwendolyn said, “thank you very much.”
“But what about your missing three grand?”
Gwendolyn glanced at Bertie. “I’ve kissed that money goodbye.”
“But you were hoping to fund your store with it, right? Dresses, if I recall.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, mildly. “But that’s life, isn’t it? Some things work out perfectly, while others fall apart.”
Hughes dropped his spoon. It clattered onto the ceramic dish, splashing green peppermint ice cream onto the marble. “You have a dream, you make it happen. And you don’t stop until it comes true. Sometimes that means you enlist the support of someone who can help.”
He pulled a paper napkin from the metal box and wiped his mouth. “I’ll send you a check for five thousand next week.” Hughes dropped his wadded paper into his empty dish.
Her vision of how Chez Gwendolyn would look—the window display, the sign, the clothing—swam into view. “Thank you,” she said slowly. “But I need time—”
Hughes hoisted himself to his feet. “No deadline. It isn’t a loan. It’s a gift.” He clutched his hip as he disappeared into the night.
Kathryn landed her hand on top of Gwendolyn’s. “Honey!” she cried. “You’ve done it! Chez Gwendolyn’s a go!”
Gwendolyn stared at the abandoned dessert and shook her head to clear her mind. “I don’t know that I feel comfortable taking his money.”
“You were right to knock Leilah back. But this is completely different! Hughes earns his money honestly. Half the girls in this town have been the recipients of his generosity, so why not you too?”
Gwendolyn nodded absently, but wasn’t convinced. Obviously the man could afford to fund a hundred Chez Gwendolyns and not even miss a dime. If she was going to accept his money, she wanted to know there were no strings attached. The problem was that when it came to Howard Hughes and girls and money, there were always strings attached.
CHAPTER 36
Kathryn was thankful Bette Davis had told her to not put herself out. “I’m eight and a half months pregnant,” she drawled over the telephone. “I can’t stomach anything more exotic than saltine crackers with peanut butter, and a pineapple Jell-O chaser.”
She switched on the radio; an old Harry James tune—“I’ve Heard That Song Before”—started to fill her living room when the doorbell rang. An alarmingly pregnant movie star huffed to catch her breath.
“Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,” she said, taking Bette by the hand and guiding her to the sofa, taking as much of the weight as she could while Bette lowered herself.
Bette expelled a harsh breath as she arranged the cushions to support her back. “Cover model for Maternal Monthly Magazine, I am not.”
“Are you drinking?” Kathryn asked.
Bette barked out a laugh. “I shouldn’t.”
“Which means—?”
“We should probably stick to milk and pray it might induce Barbara to pop out early.”
“So you’re having a girl?”<
br />
“Barbara Davis Sherry,” Bette replied. “BD for short.” She rubbed her stomach like a farmer might pat a cow. “And don’t you dare print that until I pass this watermelon.”
Kathryn crossed into the kitchen. “I hope you were serious about the saltines and peanut butter.”
Bette’s eyes lit up when Kathryn returned with two glasses of milk in one hand and a platter in the other. “Perfection! Now, sit yourself down and tell me what’s on your mind.”
Kathryn should have known Bette was far too canny to not see through her breezy invitation. The night at Bertie’s ice cream parlor had unnerved her. She was worried that every last crumb of willpower would rot away before she knew Nelson meant what he said.
But it was Gwendolyn’s question that kept haunting her: Have you thought about how Marcus will feel when he learns of this?
Until that moment, Kathryn had assumed that Marcus would support anything she did. She’d never given him any grief over his romance with Oliver. But didn’t the Breen Office obstruct Hollywood’s freedom of speech as much as the FBI? Surely they were in the same boat. How could Marcus see it any other way?
But Nelson was with the FBI, and the FBI was in league with the HUAC, which was out to bring Hollywood to its knees over something that scarcely even existed. Nobody doubted there were Communists in Hollywood, but the idea that they were sneaking Commie dogma into every movie was laughable.
The questions swirled around Kathryn’s head like dishwater circling the drain until she didn’t know which way was up. She couldn’t talk to Gwendolyn about it—she was too close. So she’d decided she needed someone to put her straight—someone who wasn’t afraid to tell her that she was a mercenary she-devil.
Bette sat before her, wide-eyed with expectation. “Is it man trouble?” she prompted.
That was all the prodding Kathryn needed.
To her credit, Bette tsked and smiled in all the right places, and never interrupted the flood of words that came pouring out.
“Well!” she exclaimed once Kathryn reached the end of her story. “That’s one mighty sharp pickle you’ve gotten yourself into.”
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