Script for Scandal

by Renee Patrick

  ‘You mean stars?’ Virginia’s eyes sparkled. ‘Do tell.’

  Edith responded by sitting in one of the tufted chairs. Her discretion evidently earned Virginia’s respect. She, too, took a seat, crossing her long legs. ‘Now why are you two interested in little ol’ me?’

  ‘I wanted to express my condolences about Sylvia,’ I said.

  ‘Likewise, sweetheart. I hear you’re the one who found her.’

  ‘That’s right. I’d learned she’d deceived me.’

  A grin sidled across Virginia’s face. ‘Let me guess. You learned I deceived you, too. Found out the source of my income and the company I keep.’

  ‘I don’t know any of that matters,’ Edith said. ‘From the outset you’ve presented yourself as a woman who appreciates – and can afford – lovely clothes.’

  ‘Oh, I do like you,’ Virginia cooed. ‘Yeah, I could always parlay a buck into a bundle. It’s the only talent I have. Well, that and one or two others. I got that skill from my old man. A worthless bastard even by Alabama standards, but one hell of a trader. He could leave in the morning with nothing but a pocketknife and come home at night with a horse.’

  ‘How did you know Sylvia?’ I asked. ‘Did you meet her through Clyde Fentress?’

  ‘No. I don’t move in Clyde’s circles. His old ones or his new ones. I only know what poor Sylvia told me about him. I’ve never properly met Clyde. Or his wife. She sounds like hell on wheels. Have you made her acquaintance?’

  ‘Not formally. So how did you meet Sylvia?’

  Virginia cast her eyes demurely about the room. ‘Do you think these walls can keep secrets?’

  ‘Considering the wares purveyed in here,’ Edith said, ‘they’d better.’

  Virginia sat back. ‘I met Sylvia through her boyfriend.’

  ‘You mean one other than Clyde,’ I said.

  ‘Yes.’ Another glance at the walls. ‘Have you ladies ever heard of Ben Siegel? The papers usually call him a “Hollywood sportsman”, but that’s not exactly what he is.’

  The name did clang a chime. ‘Then what is he? And I thought he was called Bugsy.’

  ‘I’d advise you not to use that nickname.’ Edith kept her voice low, perhaps wondering herself about the walls’ ability to stay mum.

  ‘Yeah. Sends Ben right into a rage.’ Virginia considered Edith. ‘How’d you know about that?’

  ‘Mr Siegel has been mentioned in my salon a time or two. Mainly as a clotheshorse, the first man to sport maroon and dark green evening wear on the West Coast. I understand he’s quite the debonair figure.’

  ‘And how. Best-dressed man I ever saw.’ Virginia’s eyes danced at some memory. ‘You know how he pays for those fancy threads?’

  ‘One hears stories.’ Edith shifted on her chair. ‘That Mr Siegel is a gangster. The New York underworld’s emissary to Los Angeles.’

  ‘All true. But take it from me, Ben’s really here because he’s nuts about pictures. Thinks he should be in them. He’d walk away from the rackets in a hot minute if he could get in front of a camera.’

  ‘Hang on,’ I interjected. ‘You’re saying Sylvia was involved with Ben Siegel? How’d that happen?’

  ‘I told you. Ben loves pictures. Sylvia wanted to write them and works for Central Casting. You know, common interests.’

  ‘But Sylvia didn’t want to write pictures,’ I said.

  Virginia shrugged. ‘Then they developed other common interests.’

  ‘So Mr Siegel introduced you to Miss Ward,’ Edith said.

  ‘Not exactly. Let’s say Sylvia and I were members of the same club.’

  ‘Ah. You, too, were involved with Mr Siegel?’

  ‘No need to pretty it up, Edith. Ben and I had fun in the feathers. He’s good at it. So am I. One of the other talents I mentioned earlier.’

  Her brazenness brought a ferocious blush to my face while Edith took it in stride. Virginia kept talking.

  ‘We had a few laughs back in New York, where we met. I came out west, saw Ben and Sylvia together one night, and decided to size up the latest flavor Benny was sampling. Sylvia and I hit it off. Again, chalk it up to common interests.’

  ‘What was your impression of poor Miss Ward?’

  Virginia cocked her head, an actress who wanted her audience to know she was thinking. ‘A sweet kid. Kind of “out of her depth”, if you know what I mean.’

  Not like you, I thought.

  ‘About Ben— Mr Siegel,’ I amended, not permitting myself any informality when it came to transcontinental hoodlums. ‘When did you meet him?’

  ‘First time? 1937. Early in the year, because I was wearing a fur. I remember that. It was in Brooklyn. I was going around with another fella then, Joey, but Ben has a way of commanding the attention. We had a memorable night. Actually, two. No, three. Then he went home to the wife and kids. Ben’s been here part of the year since the ’20s. He’s always had business out this way. Never stopped talking about Los Angeles the whole time we were together.’ She moistened her lower lip. ‘Well, that ain’t entirely true.’

  Edith let the innuendo lie. ‘If I may ask, Miss Hill, where were you last night?’

  ‘When Sylvia was killed? I was in Lorna Whitcomb’s column.’

  ‘I see. I haven’t read today’s newspapers. I don’t suppose you’d know Mr Siegel’s whereabouts.’

  ‘I don’t keep tabs on him. We’re no longer on intimate terms.’ Virginia turned to me and batted her eyes. ‘If you tell the police about Ben and Sylvia, honey, I’d appreciate it if you left the source of your information out of it.’

  A soft knock on the door preceded the Oriental woman we had noticed earlier. She nodded at Virginia. ‘Pardon the intrusion, Miss Hill, but we have the garments ready for you to try.’

  ‘Thanks, Karen. Send ’em on in.’

  Edith and I rose as Karen slipped out of the room. I spied a book on the dressing table, a slim volume entitled Forever by Mildred Cram. ‘Howard’s thorough when it comes to the props,’ I remarked.

  ‘Oh, no. That’s mine.’ Virginia clutched the book to her breast like a young girl defending her diary. ‘It’s my favorite. I’ve read it over and over. It’s about fate and destiny and a love greater than death.’

  ‘Sounds intriguing,’ Edith said. ‘Has there been a film version?’

  ‘No picture could do it justice. Someday I’ll find my soulmate, like they do in the book.’ For once Virginia didn’t come across as wised-up and worldly. She sounded like she believed every word she said.

  In the corridor, Karen directed a battalion of attendants bearing filmy garments into the lingerie room. ‘Excuse me, Karen,’ I began.

  ‘Yes, Miss Frost?’

  We had not, I recalled, been introduced. ‘I know this is an imposition—’

  ‘You would perhaps like to visit our brunette room? But of course. This way, please.’

  She escorted us to a slice of amber heaven, a room with walls a subdued shade of gold. Sunlight streamed in through vermillion curtains. I caught sight of my five-foot-eight-inch frame in the mirror and gaped in disbelief. I was still too tall, with long arms that seemed positively simian. But in this room, within these walls, bathed in this magnificent light, I looked … not hideous.

  ‘Can I live here?’ I asked.

  ‘The wallpaper was imported from Austria,’ Karen said pleasantly. ‘I can inquire about securing more for you, if you’d like.’

  ‘You should see what Howard calls the Black Room,’ Edith said. ‘He had tiny mirrors embedded in the ceiling. It’s like you’re under the stars. What did you make of Miss Hill?’

  ‘I wish Sylvia really had written a movie about her. She’s quite a character. How did Sylvia put it? She lives life on her own terms.’

  ‘That is beyond doubt. I agree with Florabel Muir’s assessment. Miss Hill, I believe, is quite the dangerous woman.’

  ‘Speaking of dangerous women, the one I’d like to talk to is Josie Fentress. If only I could find her.
’

  Karen cleared her throat. ‘Forgive me, Miss Frost.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Mr Greer indicated I was to assist you and Miss Head any way I can.’

  ‘What is your name, dear?’ Edith asked.

  ‘Karen Wong. It’s an honor to meet you, Miss Head. I am a great admirer of your work.’

  ‘As I am of yours, Miss Wong. I have reason to believe you are responsible for the smooth operation of Howard’s salon.’

  ‘I’m honored to be part of Mr Greer’s vision.’ Karen deflected the compliment as deftly as Edith delivered it. I felt as if I were watching a tennis match between two gifted athletes. ‘I could not help overhearing your conversation, and thought it might interest you to know Mrs Fentress is hosting an event this evening at the Ebell Club.’

  Her pass-the-fur-hat dinner, I thought, remembering the circular I’d seen at the Stanley Rose Bookshop.

  ‘Mrs Fentress is a client of Howard’s, I take it?’ Edith asked.

  ‘As are a number of her guests,’ Karen said.

  ‘I stand by my earlier comment, Miss Wong. You are an integral part of this salon’s success.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Head. Could I perhaps interest either of you in a gown?’

  TWENTY

  The Ebell Club boasted such a glorious edifice it saddened me the building had lately become associated with endings. The Italianate clubhouse in Hancock Park had been the site of Amelia Earhart’s final public appearance before she vanished in 1937. The Ebell bravely shouldered its cameo in the tragedy; a cornerstone of Los Angeles civic life, it regularly hosted events like this evening’s dinner in support of the Global Refugee Alliance, organized in part by Josephine Hatcher Fentress. As Edith inched her red roadster past a state funeral’s worth of black cars lining Wilshire Boulevard, I devoutly wished she’d driven the entire way at that speed.

  ‘This is a pretty pulled-up affair if half the guests are in Howard Greer originals.’ I watched a gaggle of socialites sweep into the clubhouse. ‘How are we supposed to waltz in?’

  ‘I’m sure we’ll think of something.’ Edith brought the car to an ungainly halt a few blocks away. She rummaged in the trunk, emerging with a long black garment bag she draped over her arm.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A coat.’

  ‘It’s not that chilly.’

  ‘One never knows.’

  A spectacular entryway wrought of wrought iron made adequate preparation for the lobby. Chandeliers dangled from a coffered ceiling garlanded with rosettes. I was mid-marvel when an officious woman strode over, already preparing to give us the distaff bum’s rush. ‘I’m sorry, this is a private event.’

  Edith’s hand snapped up, presenting a card reading GREER, INC. in gilt letters. Her other hand hoisted the garment bag. ‘Mr Greer sent us,’ she said, in a voice implying we were being stayed from the swift completion of our appointed rounds. ‘Mrs Winslow’s replacement gown. There was an incident with a wineglass.’

  ‘Oh. Of course. Yes. Carry on.’ The woman waved us toward the assemblage and hurried away.

  ‘Who’s Mrs Winslow?’ I asked Edith, chasing after her.

  ‘The woman in the wineglass incident. It’s all anyone’s talking about.’

  We followed the procession into a courtyard, verdant under a purpling sky and ringed by a colonnaded walkway. Around a fountain depicting a woman bearing a bowl, clusters of conversation had sprung up. I spied a number of dazzling dresses I was prepared to credit to Howard Greer, along with a few that looked like they’d last been liberated from mothballs when the Armistice had been signed.

  Then I noticed someone staring, if not daggers, then letter openers at me. I alerted Edith we were about to have company.

  Kay Dambach, my occasional friend and gossip’s queen bee without a court, made her way over with that new girdle gait. As usual, Hank ‘Ready’ Blaylock had her arm. Her cowboy consort, one of the finest stunt riders in Gower Gulch, served as Kay’s escort in part to stanch stories about his preference for male companionship. He greeted me with authentic affection while Kay’s eyes took on a more mercenary cast.

  ‘I don’t believe you’ve officially met Edith Head,’ I said.

  ‘Yet I feel Miss Dambach is a friend from her column. And Mr Blaylock’s facility with horses is of course well known.’ Edith, firing the first salvo of flattery.

  ‘How’s Vi these days?’ Ready asked, angling for a friendly conversation. But Kay had long since stopped having those, and plunged into the business at hand.

  ‘Some crowd at this bash. A passel of Bolsheviks and a dowager who claims to be a Civil War widow. From the looks of her, I can guarantee the South isn’t going to rise again, no matter how big a smash Gone with the Wind is. What brings you ladies out tonight?’

  ‘I’m interested in learning about’ – frantically I scanned the closest placard – ‘the plight of the refugees.’

  ‘In a pig’s eye.’ Kay cackled. ‘You’re here because tonight’s picnic is the handiwork of Josie Fentress, whose husband traded blows with your man Gene. A fracas I told you about, so you owe me. I want the truth. Is that why you’re here, Miss Head? Does this event have any bearing on the picture you’re designing? What’s it called? Searchlight something?’

  ‘I hate to correct you, Miss Dambach, but neither would I want you to commit an error to print. I’m here to assess the viability of the Ebell Club for a charity costume event planned for later this year. I can’t provide details yet, but when it’s announced I assure you it will be the event of the season.’ She leaned in slyly. ‘You’ve netted an exclusive. Congratulations.’

  Kay, bewitched by visions of a scoop, had forgotten me entirely. ‘You can’t whet my readers’ appetites?’

  ‘Not about the event, but there are some tidbits about upcoming Paramount films I’d be delighted to share.’ As she stepped closer to Kay, Edith flashed me a look: scram! Ready made an able accomplice, blocking my departure from Kay’s view as Edith commenced holding forth.

  I slipped into the dining room. Standard practice at such soirées was to have some form of entertainment open the bill, but Josie had chosen to firebrand it up by booking a speaker. A tiny, wizened man fulminated at the front of the room in an impenetrable accent, the few older ladies scattered at the tables exchanging looks as if the band were playing unfamiliar music too loud and too fast. I snatched a few hors d’oeuvres from a passing tray and returned to the courtyard. Edith continued expounding, her hand on Kay’s arm for emphasis but also to prevent her escape. I continued searching for Josie.

  Her husband hove into view first. Embarrassment flickered across Clyde Fentress’s face when he realized I’d caught him in full soup and fish. Then he stalked toward me like a beast on an African veldt, nostrils flaring as if he’d caught my scent on the wind. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he growled.

  I took an involuntary step back, then some low instinct commanded I hold my ground. This was how Fentress and his criminal cohort functioned, forever hunting for weakness. I couldn’t afford to show him any.

  ‘You already know. I’m the one who found Sylvia.’

  ‘Why were you even looking for her?’

  ‘I read her script pages. Found out she wasn’t your protégée.’

  ‘I already volunteered that to the cops.’ He smirked. ‘Beat you to the punch.’

  ‘And I reminded them Sylvia’s death was the second in your circle this week.’

  ‘You still trying to hang Nap’s murder on me? I hadn’t seen him in weeks.’

  Around us, the courtyard filled with some of the city’s most distinguished citizens. ‘At least the sad news about Sylvia didn’t force you and your wife to scale back your social obligations.’

  Fentress’s entire body tensed, like a dog’s awaiting the signal to pounce. ‘You’re not on the lot anymore, girly. You’re making trouble out in the real world. Where there are consequences. What do you want?’

  ‘I was hoping t
o talk to your wife.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I understand the police couldn’t locate her last night. As you and Sylvia were romantically involved, your wife had reason to want her dead.’

  Fentress looked momentarily startled; had the prospect of Josie’s guilt never occurred to him? Then his customary swagger reasserted itself. ‘What Sylvia and I had did not involve romance. That why you’re pestering me? Romance? You’re twisting yourself into knots over Gene Morrow. He worth it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He surveyed the crowd, then pulled me behind a pillar and aimed his gray eyes directly at mine. It still felt like staring at a wall.

  ‘OK. Tell you what,’ he said. ‘You help me clear my name and I’ll dish out every detail about the California Republic job. The whole truth, not that malarkey I wrote for those tin-pot dictators who run Paramount.’

  ‘Why do you need me? Just level with the police and let them do their job.’

  His laughter was showy and broad. Any decent director would have cut it. ‘Even if I was inclined to play fair with John Law, it wouldn’t help. I’m an ex-con. One who’s made good twice over. Decent job, married into money. The cops hate my guts. They won’t bend over backwards to do right by me. Then there’s Josie. She may be rich, but politically she’s racked up enemies. The woman’s essentially a Red. She knows just because the city elected a mayor who hums along with the reform tune doesn’t mean he knows the words. Corruption ain’t going anywhere, especially when it comes to the LAPD. As for you, well … you’ve got an in with the department, don’t you?’

  ‘No, I don’t. Gene’s in trouble. You know he is.’

  ‘True. But cops close ranks around their own. People are gonna be working on his behalf. You may hear about it. And who knows? Maybe your clowning around on your own might turn something up.’

  I ignored his slight. ‘This is more malarkey. You don’t mean any of this. You just want me to leave.’

  ‘Yes, I want you to leave! My wife’s here! That’s why I’m being on the level. What do you say?’

  I considered his proposition. What Fentress suggested meant not only working against the District Attorney’s office but Gene himself, albeit on Gene’s own behalf. Provided Fentress’s ‘whole truth’ exonerated Gene.