Tommy set his homburg down next to a basket of beaded hair combs on the counter. “Any guesses why I’m here?”
“Probably not to jazz up that hat with a peacock feather.”
“You’ve been telling tales out of school. Blackening my name to the law.”
“Your name wasn’t in such good shape to begin with.”
His Too Much Tommy curl of dark hair spilled into his face. It made Tommy resemble an overgrown child, prone to tantrums and mulishness. He pushed the hair back, then his fingers batted the basket of combs. “I spent last night with a couple bulls fishing for leads. I’m never gonna get the stink of that police station out of this coat.”
“Did you want a new one? Menswear is on three.”
“I don’t shop here. Soon as they kicked me loose I came to you. Because you’re the one told them about me and Ruby.”
“Why do you think it was me? Plenty of people knew you two were an item.”
“Yeah, were an item. Ruby forgot about me. You didn’t. Those cops grilled me like they found the pistol in my hand. What did you tell them? And I mean exactly.”
“That you and Ruby used to go together. That’s all.”
“And that you don’t like me. You never liked me.” He brushed at his lapel. “It’s okay, Lillian. You can admit it.”
“I have no opinion of you one way or the other.” But he was right. Slow-cooling spite against Tommy had been a factor in my pointing the police in his direction.
Tommy plucked a comb from the basket and considered the beads adorning it. “Next question. What do the cops have?”
“Not enough to hold you, so what difference does it make?” He wouldn’t dare pull any moves in the store, I reassured myself, so I could chance a little bravado.
“They couldn’t hold me because I didn’t kill Ruby. I’d like to know who did, though. And find him before the cops do. A few minutes ahead of them, that’d be enough. So I’ll ask again. What do they have?”
“How would I know?”
In response Tommy stared at me, content to wait me out. One of his bulky compatriots tried to stifle a belch. I needed them gone before Mr. Valentine showed up. “Ruby was going out a lot. With rich new friends.”
“Who, Armand and Natalie? Forget about them.”
Armand, he’d said. Not Armando the way Vi had remembered the name. “You know them?” I asked.
Tommy laughed, a mirthless little bark. “Yeah, I know ’em. Those two aren’t involved. And they’re long gone, the both of them. What else you got?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? No tidbits from that costume broad?” Morrow would never have told Tommy about our trip to Paramount. Only one person could have let that slip. Vi, feeling sorry for her jilted boss.
Tommy tapped the comb against the glass, his face softening into a concerned parish priest look. “What do you have against me, Lillian? Didn’t me and Ruby show you a good time when we took you out?”
“Sure. Dragging me to nightclubs because some ‘businessman’ pal of yours wanted to dance with a ‘nice girl.’ The trouble with those guys, when they think you’re a nice girl they try twice as hard to put a hand up your skirt.”
“So you don’t like me and my friends. You don’t have to. This is America. But I want to do the right thing here. For Ruby’s sake.”
“I think we can safely say Ruby’s past caring.”
“Jesus, that’s some way to talk. You two were friends.”
“For a little while. But you and I aren’t friends. You’re the guy who got Ruby hooked on the high life. And look where she ended up.”
Tommy reared back as if I’d slapped him, that goddamned forelock falling into his eyes again. “We had some laughs, Ruby and me. We could have kept on having them if she hadn’t given me the air. Remember that. She walked away from me.”
“That may have been the one smart thing she did.”
I expected him to scowl at me. Instead he gazed at the decorative comb he’d lifted out of the basket as if it contained the answer he needed. Then he dropped it into his coat pocket. Brazenly stealing it right in front of me, knowing I wouldn’t challenge him. And he was right.
“I can live with you not helping me,” he said. “But you’re not helping the cops, either. Keep your trap shut from now on.”
“For Ruby’s sake?”
He looked at me, his eyes lifeless and dull, and I knew why they called him the Shark, knew it in a deep place inside of me that had grown unfathomably cold.
“No. For yours. For the sake of things could get uncomfortable for you if you don’t. I know where you work. I know where you live, all by yourself.”
“You wouldn’t hurt me.” It sounded more like a question than I had intended.
“You. Your friends. I even know people who know people back in New York. That’s where you’re from, right? Uncle Danny? Aunt Joyce?”
Content with the effect his words had on me, he took his time fitting his hat on his head, pausing to inspect his reflection in the nearby gilt-edged mirror. He stepped aside to let a customer pass, the very picture of gentlemanliness. I didn’t start breathing again until he and his thugs were on the escalator. And even then, I kept the breaths shallow.
8
A CAR DOOR slammed behind me. So much for the shortcut sparing me the reporters still barnacling Mrs. Lindros’s house.
“You live in the Lindros shack, sweetheart?” He was a tall man with hair like cut straw. His features clustered in the center of his face as if conspiring against his ears. He gestured at the house’s kaleidoscopic walls. “What’s with the paint job? Guess you don’t mind. You don’t have to look at it.”
“I don’t have any comment for the press.”
“Not even for Beckett of the Register?” The sunlight did his cheap suit no favors. The fabric seemed to change color as he inched closer. “Give, sister. Tell me something about this Carroll dame.”
“Sure. She didn’t think much of men who lingered on sidewalks.” I sidestepped him and continued toward the house.
“That’s not what I heard.” Beckett kept pace. “How ’bout her pal Natalie Szabo? Ever heard of her?”
Szabo. At least I’d gotten Natalie’s surname out of the exchange. I walked faster. New York fast. “Here’s my statement,” I hollered over my shoulder at him. “Blow it out your ear.”
“I’ve already got that quote,” Beckett yelled back as he gave up the chase. “From multiple sources.”
Mrs. Lindros was replanting her desecrated flower beds. I didn’t interrupt her. Nothing was going to sway me from my multiple missions, not even the divine scent of cinnamon wafting from the kitchen.
Vi was in her attic room, doing her nails with the door ajar. When I knocked she started like a little girl caught rooting in her mother’s makeup bag, blond hair flying. “Lillian! I didn’t even hear you come up the stairs.”
“I ran into your friend Tommy Carpa today.”
“He’s not my friend. He’s my boss.” She added the finishing touches to her pinky. “Did you see him at the police station? They picked him up at the club last night. It was some ruckus.”
“No. He came to Tremayne’s for a little midday threatening. That I-know-where-you-live stuff doesn’t play as well over the phone.”
“Threaten you? Tommy would never do that.”
“Would and did. Somehow he knew I was the person who gave his name to the police.”
“Maybe the detectives told him.”
“They want to get information from him, not hand it over. Plus Tommy knew all about my trip to Paramount and meeting Edith Head.”
Vi waved her hands. I thought she was drying the polish until she burst into tears. The instinct to rush to her side and comfort her was so overpowering I clutched the doorjamb to remain in place.
“You’re right,” she said. “I’m sorry. It’s just … you should have seen him last night. He was so upset. He said the police wouldn’t care because Ruby was a n
obody. I wanted him to know that wasn’t so. I started telling him about you and I guess everything came out.” The swing shift arrived at the waterworks, and Vi started crying harder. “I try to help and I make things worse.”
I felt my death grip on the door frame loosening, so I dug in my fingernails. Vi in dolorous waif mode was difficult to resist. I wondered if she knew it, if Ruby had advised her to play that card. Fellas can’t say no to a frail, angel, especially a weepy one. Give ’em a show.
“Don’t worry about it.” I drained all nuance from my voice. “I understand.”
“He’s obsessed with Ruby.”
“He certainly is. He said he’s going to find her killer before the police do.”
“Why?”
I gave her a moment to work it out. She frowned. “Oh, no. He shouldn’t do that.”
“Pass that suggestion on to Tommy. He seems to listen to you.”
“Only when he wants something.”
“That should tell you the kind of man he is. Watch what you say to him. You could be getting people hurt. And by people, I mean me.”
“I’m sorry, Lillian. I’ll keep my mouth shut, I promise. I’d shake on it, but my nails are still wet.”
“Your word’s good enough. I saw Ruby’s photo in the paper.”
Vi’s face crumpled. “I feel so foolish. How could I have thought that man was a detective? Him and his cheap suit.”
Cheap suit? “Tall fellow, hair like a haystack? Loitering near the shortcut?”
“Yes! Do you know him?”
I dabbed Vi’s eyes with a tissue. “I’ve made his acquaintance.”
* * *
THE AROMA OF cinnamon was still strong when I found Kay in the kitchen. “Remember Ruby’s friend Natalie?” I said. “I may know her last name.”
“Big deal. Jimmie Fidler had it in his column four weeks ago.” Kay fished a notebook from her apron pocket and theatrically cleared her throat. “‘Who was that lovely lady on the arm of Argentine Armand Troncosa, he of the prancing polo ponies? None other than Princess Natalya Szabo of Hungary, who rumor has it is open to screen offers.’ Told you I’d track them down. I asked around about Troncosa. A regular playboy, took a house in Whitley Heights. Facts about Natalie are more scarce. Woman of mystery, regal bearing, some looker, the usual.”
“Tommy knows them. He told me to forget about them.”
“Then that’s the last thing you should do. Tommy knows them?” A feverish gleam stole into Kay’s eyes. “Gangsters, royalty, and a murder. This caper gets juicier by the minute. I may ride this story all the way to Hearst’s office. At least until Paramount hushes the whole thing up.”
“That wouldn’t happen.”
“Come on, Lillian. Wise up. Paramount is Adolph Zukor’s domain and nobody in Hollywood is more sensitive to scandal than ol’ Creepy. He’s already dealt with Fatty Arbuckle’s trial and Wallace Reid wasting away in a sanitarium on morphine. Plus William Desmond Taylor’s killer is still walking around, drawing a Paramount salary for all we know. Zukor’s not about to let Ruby drag his studio’s name through the mud.”
At that moment, a tall drink of well water appeared in the back doorway. His rugged manner was undercut by a sweet grin. “Ladies,” he said. “Forgive me if I’m a little spooked. Miz Lindros mistook me for one of those press fellers and threatened to shoot me.”
“She actually has a gun, Ready,” I said.
“Oh, I know. I helped her load it once.” Hank “Ready” Blaylock had been involved with Kay for over a year. Ready had reliable work as a stuntman and rider in westerns, plus a fine car and an easy disposition. What he didn’t have was any interest in the fairer sex. He wanted to avoid questions as he worked his way up the Hollywood ladder. Kay, fixated on her career, needed an escort to various show business events. Their romance of convenience suited them both perfectly.
“What brings you here, gorgeous?” I asked him.
“Kay made snickerdoodles. Word’s out all over town.”
“I’m practicing for Christmas,” she said. “Shall we dig in?”
“You go ahead. I have to check something.”
“It must be important if you’re saying no to cookies.”
“Who’s saying no? I’m saying ‘in a minute.’”
My objective was to find the clothes Edith said were missing from Paramount. I’d searched Ruby’s half-empty closet again on my way down from Vi’s room and turned up no trace of ill-gotten gain. But Ruby’s words at our final lunch buzzed in my mind. I headed for the basement stairs. Mrs. Lindros still hadn’t installed a light switch. The hall lamp illuminated the top steps, but below them was inky blackness. I took a breath and told myself only kids are afraid of the dark, then hurtled downstairs with a hand outstretched to grab the string dangling from the single bulb in the ceiling before Frankenstein’s monster could grab me.
Mrs. Lindros had sectioned off a basement corner for boxes and suitcases left behind by girls who’d moved back home or ditched on their bills. Stooping and squinting I checked labels, pausing for the occasional sneezing fit. None of the abandoned luggage bore Ruby’s name. One valise had a large paper tag reading ELIZABETH BUONO. Elizabeth, the “Spanish-looking” girl whom Ruby, the last time I saw her, had shamelessly suggested might have stolen my brooch. Elizabeth was Italian and from Fall River, Massachusetts. I wondered where she was, and took a moment to wish her well.
According to Ruby, Elizabeth had been gone for months. I ran my finger across the top of Elizabeth’s suitcase. No dust at all.
I hauled the case upstairs without bruising my shins too badly. The racket brought Kay and Ready to the door. “Kind sir?”
Ready relieved me of the suitcase. “Ruby’s?” Kay asked. “Let’s take it to my room.”
Ready, after checking for Mrs. Lindros and her trusty blunderbuss, lay the suitcase on Kay’s mattress.
“Behold the most excitement this bed has ever seen,” Kay said with a grin.
The latch was locked. I plucked a hairpin from Kay’s head. “Shield your eyes, gang. No point in being accessories.”
“These New York girls.” Ready chuckled. “All of ’em lawbreakers.”
The lock yielded with a click after a few seconds’ effort. I raised the lid of the suitcase.
“What’s in it?” Kay pushed Ready out of the way.
“Enough wardrobe to stage our own version of Grand Hotel.” The case was stuffed with clothes. Shimmering silver lamé lay on top. I lifted up a gown, cut on the bias, with a neckline so low it was hard to tell the front from the back.
“Oh my,” Kay said.
“I’ll say,” Ready seconded.
I sorted through the contents, garments Ruby couldn’t afford to buy but had been bold enough to steal. Sophie Lang would have been proud. There were some good shoes along with several pairs of shabby ones polished to a high shine. I opened a small bag and a jumble of jewelry cascaded out. Pieces in a host of styles and all ostentatious, like the topaz tinsel she’d been wearing when she died. The counterfeit emerald bedecking one necklace gleamed with an almost resentful ferocity.
“Property of Paramount Pictures?” Kay asked.
“There’s one person who could tell us for sure.”
“Edith Head?”
“Good thing you know her,” Ready said. “Could we mosey downstairs now, before Miz Lindros catches me up here and has me drawn and quartered?”
9
BY POOR RICHARD’S reckoning, given the hour I should have been healthy, wealthy, and wise. Instead I had the makings of a small headache, a sou or two to my name, and the foolish notion I could raise Edith Head while the cock crowed.
Some foolish notions pay off. Edith was already manning her post at Paramount when I called. With minimal preamble I briskly inventoried the contents of Ruby’s stashed suitcase.
Edith made a faint clucking sound of the worst-suspicions-confirmed variety. “Could you possibly bring the items to the studio at once?”
&nbs
p; I was due at Tremayne’s in little more than an hour. I had to be sober and responsible. Edith, a fellow working girl, would understand.
“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” said a voice uncannily like my own. “Just let me figure out the streetcar route.”
“Never mind that. I’ll send a car for you.”
After finalizing arrangements, I telephoned Tremayne’s. Of course Mr. Valentine was at the store early. We salesgirls assumed he walked the floors at night turning out the lights, then donned a pair of Tremayne’s City Squire brand pajamas and slipped beneath the starched covers of one of the demonstration beds on five.
I told him Detective Morrow wanted to ask me a few more questions, which I imagined would be the case after I delivered Ruby’s bounty to Paramount. I was merely reversing the sequence of events. Telling a lie so white it was more the ghost of one, as Uncle Danny would say. Then again, a man who required a taxonomy of untruths might not have been the best role model.
* * *
I PURPLED MY calves lugging Ruby’s suitcase of stolen wonders downstairs. I wished I’d had the sense to wear slacks, Ruby’s anti-pants prejudice be damned.
A maroon Buick glided to a stop as I dragged the valise to the curb. A liveried chauffeur confirmed my identity and tucked the suitcase into the car’s trunk. He grunted once with exertion for my benefit. I decided being whisked through crowded streets like a pasha made it worth my sworn oath to Mr. Valentine to work late sorting a shipment of undergarments.
The Paramount gates had lost none of their magic. I shivered as I passed through them for the second time in three days. The driver pulled up in front of the Wardrobe building. Edith stood by the front door. “Faster than the streetcar and more civilized,” she declared. She instructed the driver, who had hoisted the suitcase out of the trunk, to follow her.
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