Script for Scandal

by Renee Patrick

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There’s always been some noise about his wife’s politics, but Max says the police attention of late has riled the studio’s chieftains. They’re prepared to cancel his contract.’

  ‘They can’t do that!’ I exclaimed. ‘What if Clyde takes a powder and I need to talk to him? I can’t exactly leave a message with Josie.’

  ‘I’m afraid there’s nothing to be done if the studio sees fit to release him. Now. Do you plan on attending the Countess’s party?’

  After hawing, then hemming, I said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘I assumed as much. Nothing from your closet will suit such an occasion. You’re a guest, not the staff. I’m sending your measurements to Howard Greer. We’ll see if he has something you can borrow. If I know him, Karen Wong will meet you later this evening with a gown for the ages.’

  It bothered me, the prospect my party invitation was a put-on. Yet knowing Clyde Fentress could be in the wind perturbed me more. I had to keep track of him if I was to have any chance of clearing Gene’s name. But I couldn’t do it myself, and it wasn’t like I could ask Gene to do it.

  Then another possibility came to mind.

  I left a message at Lodestar Pictures. I was packing my purse to leave when Simon telephoned back. He sounded genuinely happy to hear from me.

  Might as well disabuse him of any illusions up front. ‘I need your help,’ I said, and explained I wanted him to follow Clyde Fentress once he left the Paramount lot.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I can’t go into it now. But it has to do with Gene.’

  ‘As if I couldn’t have guessed. Why should I lift a finger for that guy?’

  ‘I should have guessed too,’ I said. ‘Never mind. I—’

  ‘Follow him where and for how long?’

  ‘Home, and until you’re sure he’s staying there. I can tell you what he looks like.’

  ‘Don’t bother. I’ve got a pal at Paramount who can point him out to me. I’d better leave now.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m in your debt.’

  ‘Forget it. You should know I’ll do anything for you.’

  He hung up. The phone rang again as soon as I set the receiver down.

  ‘Good afternoon, Miss Frost.’ Karen Wong’s serene voice purred down the line. ‘I’m so fortunate to have reached you. Tell me, do you prefer crimson or violet?’

  TWENTY-TWO

  My uncle Danny possessed a soulful singing voice, a mischievous twinkle in his eye, and a truly murderous sense of class. He remained eternally vigilant for any signs of airs or pretensions. ‘Don’t be getting above yourself out there in California, pet, becoming one of them lace curtain Irish,’ he’d warned me before my westward trek. ‘Walk around with your nose in the air, and you can’t see what you’re about to step in.’

  As I climbed out of Addison’s Cadillac in a borrowed Howard Greer gown outside a Beverly Hills mansion ablaze with light, I knew with certainty I was in danger of getting above myself.

  The gown, ferried to me by the redoubtable Karen Wong, was violet with a parachute skirt so voluminous it could sweep the grand staircase at Radio City Music Hall clean. I feared it wasn’t my style, but as Karen diplomatically observed, we didn’t have time to debate. As for the mansion, it sat just north of Sunset Boulevard in Beverly Hills. It had been designed in the Spanish Revival style, the archways on the second floor protected by delicate iron railings, each one suitable for a senorita to be serenaded. Lampposts punctuated the pathways extending across the sprawling property, the farthest pool of light a horseback ride away. The house and grounds did not conjure up a sense of Old Mexico so much as a movie set there, which to my mind only made it more beguiling.

  ‘The Countess staged boxing matches here for one of her parties.’ Addison couldn’t help sounding slightly impressed. ‘What do you think of the idea?’

  ‘I think Mr Ayoshi wouldn’t care to have blood on his rhododendrons.’

  Addison and I entered the foyer, where Countess Dorothy di Frasso may have been holding court but her dress called the meeting to order. The ruby pillar gown featured a gathered bodice, thin straps securing it over a considerable bosom. The dramatic look had been softened with a shawl of gauzy white silk, a necessary sop to the Countess’s age. Her skin bore the synthetic suppleness of expert pampering, while her dark hair only fooled those willing to be fooled; it was apparent she had borne witness to a good half-century. Her eyes were small and active, practiced at scouting a room and assessing each new arrival’s place in the hierarchy. They locked in on Addison and me, calculation of such ferocity commencing behind them that I half-expected smoke to plume from her diamond-studded ears.

  Addison had emptied his dossier on the Countess on the ride over. ‘This is a diplomatic visit. The Countess and I tend to throw competing parties, so it’s good to have a bit of a truce. She’s from back east. Married an Italian count, but that’s only on paper. She gets to have a title, he gets a share of her inherited millions. She came to Los Angeles with Gary Cooper, believe it or not. They met in Europe, she introduced him to society and fancied herself his manager. Well, you can imagine the rest. Their parting was, they say, not amicable, so best not mention him.’ He had only a vague recollection of the voyage of the good ship Metha Nelson – ‘unpleasant business, what I remember of it’ – and closed with his standard advice: ‘Just have fun!’

  When we reached our hostess, the meeting was as fraught as one between warring heads of state. ‘Addison! What a delight! You realize I only did this so you would return the favor and invite me to one of your fabulous parties. It’s utterly ridiculous we should be feuding.’ Her accent, East Coast tempered by her time on the Continent, made her sound as if she’d grown up in a bank vault.

  ‘Who says we’re feuding, Contessa?’ Addison made a show of kissing her hand. ‘Maude sends her regrets. In Arizona for her health, you know.’

  ‘Do give her my best. And you’ve brought a charming replacement.’ The Countess’s gaze settled on me. ‘You must be Lillian Frost. I’ve heard tell of you, my dear. Marlene used to live here – she’s a close friend – and she speaks so highly of you.’

  I didn’t let the deeply gratifying praise dull my defenses. ‘Thank you for inviting me, Countess.’

  ‘I’ll want to know everything that’s happening at Paramount. Here’s a piece of trivia for you. Have you seen their new picture Midnight? My car makes a cameo appearance in it! Had the right look, they said.’

  ‘I’m about to make my dramatic debut myself, thanks to Lillian. Background player in a film.’ Addison puffed out his chest. ‘I’ve been studying acting with Bette—’

  ‘Oh, what a smashing idea! I wonder if I could get my friends a bit part in a picture, to round out their California experience. What fun that would be! I have the Duke and Duchess of Sutherland visiting now – great bearing, would be divine on camera, I’ll introduce you – and I’ve got Prince Brindi staying with me shortly. Addison, perhaps you can put in a word.’

  My employer bristled, but quietly. A self-made man, Addison had little use for aristocrats and their ilk. That attitude partly accounted for his fascination with the film colony, an entire society of people who had invented their identities and blazed their own trails.

  ‘Enjoy yourselves. And Lillian, we must talk later!’ I didn’t anticipate lively chatter about Claudette Colbert pictures. The Countess had invited me under false pretenses; at some point, she’d buttonhole me and endeavor to pick my brain.

  With Addison waylaid by well-wishers, I proceeded into the house alone. The riot of perfumes worn by the Countess’s guests commingled into a single intoxicating scent. Addison had said the famed decorator Elsie de Wolfe, Lady Mendl – another of those blasted titles – had been given a blank check in accoutering the house, and the result proved worth it. Hand-painted green wallpaper. Mirrors that doubled the size of the dining room and quadrupled the light and gaiety. Everywhere chinoiserie and bamboo lending a touch of the exotic. I
could picture Marlene Dietrich prowling the grounds, feeling completely at home.

  I circuited the house twice, finding new treasures each lap. I thought about taking a seat, but feared my parachute skirt would resemble a tent upon sitting down. Instead I paused in a room near the small orchestra and pondered my uncle Danny’s disbelief at my referring to any orchestra as ‘small’. What a long way I’d come since leaving Flushing.

  The Countess appeared on the far side of the room. Not yet ready to face her, I drifted along the edge of the dance floor.

  ‘Lively band. Would you care to take a turn?’ The offer extended with a clipped New York delivery better suited to asking, ‘Where to?’ over the front seat of a taxicab.

  A ‘buzz off’ was poised on my lips when I looked into the eyes of George Raft. The actor best known for his tough guy roles – and his card in the Transogram Movie Millions game – wore a tightly tailored tuxedo with narrow lapels. His hair gleamed under the lights. I knew he’d broken through as a dancer, so I wasn’t about to spurn him.

  He was even lighter on his feet than I’d expected. A few steps in, I said, ‘I imagine we have some friends in common at Paramount.’

  ‘You mean the studio I just parted ways with?’

  Damn. In my excitement I’d forgotten Raft and Paramount had mutually agreed to end his contract, largely because Raft racked up repeated suspensions for refusing to play villains and brutes. I scrambled for a recovery. ‘Really the only person I know there is Edith Head.’

  Raft brightened. ‘I always liked Edith. Not that she had much to do with me. Only so many ways to cut a prison uniform. She never had to put me in a suit of armor or anything.’

  And if she did, I thought, you’d ask for tight tailoring and narrow lapels.

  That well having run dry, I switched the subject to our shared New York heritage and the upcoming World’s Fair. Raft talked about some hoofers he knew who’d hired on at various venues in Flushing.

  ‘Thanks, Georgie,’ another voice said. ‘I’ll take it from here.’

  The owner of the voice wore the most immaculate tuxedo I had ever seen. He also had blue eyes. Blue the color of the ocean in your dreams. You knew that blue contained sharks and other dangers, and you didn’t care.

  Raft chafed at the interruption, even though he clearly expected it. ‘I thought I’d get to finish the dance at least.’

  ‘You need to share your gift. You’re in a garden of wallflowers. Spread it around, Twinkletoes.’ Raft backed away and the interloper took me in his arms the way you’d pick up a fork, or a hammer, or a gun. Like a tool, meant to be used.

  ‘I enjoyed our dance, miss. Save me another one.’ Raft’s words were a small defiance, and he spoke them with sincerity.

  My new partner pulled me close. I couldn’t look at him. I concentrated on the green wallpaper. The man smelled of talcum powder and various lotions, which should have made him seem comical. My fingers moved involuntarily on his tuxedo jacket, because it felt so extraordinarily smooth. If my tongue hadn’t dried up, I might have asked him where he’d gotten it.

  The orchestra wound down the song. I prayed for them to play something with heat that would keep us apart. ‘Flat Foot Floogie with a Floy Floy’, maybe.

  But no. In the cruelest of jokes, they struck up ‘Thanks for the Memory’, a tune Paramount made famous. The man lassoed me even closer, his arm coiled around me like a snake preparing to squeeze.

  ‘You enjoying the Countess’s party?’ he asked breezily.

  Somehow, I eked out a yes.

  ‘It doesn’t sound like it. I’d say it doesn’t look like it, but I can’t see you.’ He paused, hoping I’d take the hint, then instructed, ‘Look at me.’

  I obeyed. I looked into those eyes of so-deep blue. The blue of the water at the base of a cliff, with some wild voice in the back of your head whispering ‘Jump.’ I couldn’t be certain, but I thought I spied a hint of strategically placed eye shadow, meant to highlight that blue, make it shine.

  ‘Thing is, we need some entertainment.’ He continued to speak casually, as if we were on an elevator together. ‘This lousy band ain’t cutting it. So. Parlor tricks. I am going to guess your name. I’ve been able to do this forever. You ready?’ He closed those blue eyes, and I drew in a breath. The lids slammed back open. ‘Lillian Frost. Am I right?’

  I nodded. The man gave himself a round of applause by tapping his fingers against the small of my back.

  ‘Uncanny, isn’t it? Think I’ve got a little gypsy blood in me. Now. An even greater demonstration of my talents. I am going to communicate my name to you. Like a brainwave. They call it telepathy. I read about it in a science magazine. When it comes to you, when you know the name of your dance partner, you will say it. OK?’

  The blue eyes bored into mine. You’d need a whole new word to describe that shade, I thought.

  ‘Benjamin Siegel,’ I said, in what sounded to my ears like a perfectly normal voice.

  ‘Please. Ben. To a woman in my arms, it’s always Ben.’ To prove the point, he spun me around, a little too fast for my liking. ‘That gypsy blood is working well tonight. It’s astonishing. I should be in pictures. You can use your pull at Paramount to get me in the door, now that George has loused it up over there. I admit, maybe this talent won’t play very well onscreen. But if they can put a ventriloquist on the radio …’

  Siegel considered himself in the mirror. He lifted his hand briefly from my back to adjust his hair. ‘Now, Miss Frost,’ he said, then repeated the words like an actor unhappy with his line reading. ‘We know people in common. Like Dorothy. The Countess. Also my friend Sylvia. In fact, I know you found her. After she passed.’

  Another spin and we moved through French doors and outside, onto a patio. We could hear the music but no one could see us. Siegel had engineered for us to be alone and in shadow, at a brightly lit and crowded house.

  I didn’t shudder. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. And I feared if I started, I’d be unable to stop.

  ‘What perplexes me,’ he said into my ear, ‘is that I never heard my friend Sylvia mention you. Yet you show up at her home late at night, looking for her. And find her dead. That’s not the natural order of things. The person who finds you should be known to you, even if it’s your neighbor or your mailman. The person who finds you should be somebody. You are nobody.’

  We stopped dancing, though the music went on. Siegel opened his arms and released me. I turned away from him. In the grounds beyond, I noticed one of the lamps had burned out, creating a patch of darkness somehow blacker than that which surrounded it. That’s where he’s going to kill me, I thought. If I worked here, I’d have had that lamp fixed.

  ‘Actually, Miss Frost, that’s unfair. I apologize. You’re not a nobody. You work for a well-respected man. You come from good stock, back in New York, where I’m from. Uncle Danny, Aunt Joyce, out there in Flushing.’

  He stated these facts without menace. Yet fear scalded my stomach.

  ‘But you’re nobody to Sylvia. Yet you found her. And I want to know why. My gypsy blood, it’s failing me on that score. So. You have to tell me.’

  And I did. I told him everything. I babbled a little as I explained about Streetlight Story, and Gene, and Clyde Fentress. Tears leaked from my eyes but my voice remained level, if low.

  Siegel interrupted me once, when I first mentioned the bank robbery. As soon as I said California Republic, he said, ‘Right. The twenty grand.’

  He knew about it. The crime wasn’t news to him.

  When I finished, those blue eyes moved over me as dispassionately as a butcher’s. ‘What did you think you were going to accomplish?’

  I blinked frantically to buy myself a few seconds, but after they passed the question still didn’t make sense. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘When you showed up on Sylvia’s doorstep, what did you think was gonna happen? Did you think she had the twenty grand?’

  ‘I – no. I thought we co
uld talk.’

  ‘Talking doesn’t settle anything. It didn’t settle this.’ He took a step closer to me. I took two steps closer to the shadows. ‘I don’t believe you. I think you’re holding out.’

  ‘I’m not. I swear. I only wanted to help my friend.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m not buying it. You were up to something. Maybe Sylvia was, too. You and she—’

  ‘Did the fun move out here? Or am I being a fifth wheel?’ Virginia Hill sashayed out of the house but remained close to the French doors. Not out of a sense of safety, but so there’d be sufficient light to showcase her gown. Howard Greer had pulled out all the stops for this one, binding her in sable satin so tight it was obvious she’d left her lingerie purchases at home, packed neatly in their tissue paper. The dress descended to a puddle of ruffles on the floor, a flare at the knee the sole concession to human locomotion. She used it now to thrust her right leg insolently forward. Diamonds sparkled from a collar around her neck.

  Never had such a flamboyant display made me happier. I let a tremble of relief run through me as Siegel retreated, peering at Virginia quizzically.

  ‘All my pals in the same place. Ben and Lillian. I’d introduce you, but you seem to have already met.’ She held a glass in each hand. She sipped daintily from one and offered me the other. I scampered over to accept it. ‘There you go, sweetheart. A stinger for the stung.’

  ‘Where’s mine?’ Siegel asked playfully.

  ‘You don’t drink, Ben. We established that back in New York.’

  ‘We established a number of things there, as I recall.’

  ‘Yeah, it was a regular conclave. Only Pope Pius wouldn’t approve some of what you and I came up with.’ Virginia glanced at me. She still hadn’t moved that bared leg, pointed at Siegel. ‘Drink up, dear.’

  I gulped down half the stinger, the rush of heat and mint making me choke. ‘You’re meant to sip those,’ Siegel said.

  Virginia ran a manicured fingertip around the rim of her glass. ‘You still seeing the Countess, Ben?’