Design for Dying

by Renee Patrick

  Morrow shook his head. “Clearly you ladies aren’t at the Olympic on Tuesday nights. How durable are these costumes? Won’t they fall apart after Ruby wears them once or twice?”

  The temperature plunged precipitously as Edith drew herself up. “Fall apart?” She plucked one of the burgundy suits from the rack and turned the skirt inside out. “Examine this seam, Detective. Closely. What do you see? Quality. Attention to detail. Our seamstresses are the best in the business.” She slipped on the jacket and flipped up the collar. “Velvet, should the director ask the actress to turn the collar up. Real pockets, in case—” She’d tucked her hands into those pockets as she spoke. We watched as she pulled something out of the left one.

  “What have we here?” She held up an oversized jigsaw puzzle piece. It was about three inches across, sky blue with what looked like bricks on one side. “It appears I’ve found a piece of the puzzle. Or at least a puzzle.”

  “Could be part of a building,” I said.

  Morrow nodded. “Congratulations, Miss Frost. You’ve broken this case wide open.”

  Edith turned the puzzle piece over. “There’s writing on the back. ‘Twelve-slash-eleven, seven thirty.’ It doesn’t say A.M. or P.M.”

  “December eleventh,” Morrow said. “Over a month away.”

  “If that was Ruby’s I guarantee it’s not A.M.,” I said. “I rarely saw her out of bed before noon.”

  Morrow produced an envelope. “If you’d place that in here,” he said to Edith.

  “Oh, dear. Will I have to be fingerprinted for elimination purposes? I’ll be sure to wear something dark.”

  The door protested again and Paramount’s house Napoleon Barney Groff strutted in, trailed by two timid young women looking as baffled as new arrivals at Ellis Island. “Sorry for the delay, Gene. Paramount’s a big shop. My work is never done.” He looked at me. “I see someone booked our featured performer for a return engagement. Even though there was no popular demand.” Groff’s eyes lingered long enough to banish me to extra-girl status—and to permit Morrow to spirit away the envelope containing the puzzle piece. Groff angled his head toward the Ruby Carroll collection. “So these clothes are ours, too.”

  “Yes, Mr. Groff,” Edith said. “From films that had recently finished shooting.”

  “But now they’re back. Problem solved. Terrific.” Groff, I couldn’t help noticing, did not look at Edith as he spoke. He nodded at the two women, who took off toward the clothes as if they’d heard a starter’s pistol. “I drafted a few wardrobe girls to start tidying up.”

  One of the women snatched the bag of jewelry while the other lunged at the burgundy suit. Edith looked on in dismay. “Surely there’s no need to move so quickly.”

  Groff kept his words clipped and his tone arctic. “What there’s no need to do is extend police involvement in a studio matter resolved to Paramount’s satisfaction. Are other clothes missing?”

  Edith watched the first girl distribute the articles from the jewelry bag into drawers with all deliberate speed. “None I can account for, no.”

  “Was anything of consequence in the clothes?”

  Behind her glasses, Edith’s eyes flicked to Morrow. He discreetly tapped the breast pocket where he’d slipped the puzzle piece. “That’s not for me to say.”

  “Precisely. And we’ve identified the responsible party. What was his name? The photographer?”

  “Kenneth Nolan.” Edith and Morrow said it simultaneously. Edith took a step back, deferring to him.

  “My partner is talking to him now.”

  “Your partner cut him loose, and I handled the rest. Nolan is no longer in the employ of Paramount Pictures.”

  “Did he confess?” Morrow asked.

  “Does it matter? The studio’s role in this sad affair is at an end. We have our property back, the culprits no longer work here. You’re free to concentrate on more important matters. You should know, Gene, I put a call in to Chief Davis this morning, telling him how impressed Mr. Zukor was by your diligence and discretion. We haven’t seen headlines screaming ‘Alley Angel Plays Devil at Paramount.’ That hasn’t gone unappreciated.”

  Morrow grimaced, passing it off as a grin. “It’s why I do the job.”

  “In the unlikely event you do require additional cooperation, contact me direct. No need for you to waste time going through our Wardrobe Department.” He couldn’t even bring himself to pronounce Edith’s name. She’d undermined Groff’s authority by summoning Morrow herself. It wasn’t only the jewelry he was putting in its proper place.

  Edith would have none of it. “Given that poor young girl’s murder, Mr. Groff, I’m happy to assist—”

  Groff was already making for the exit. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got other fires to put out.” An awkward silence followed in his wake, broken only by the clatter of hangers as the wardrobe women undid Ruby’s crime.

  Morrow finally chuckled. “I almost have to admire that guy. Bet anything I hear from one of Chief Davis’s glad-handers, strongly suggesting I keep Paramount out of the limelight. I should track down Hansen before he starts pestering Claudette Colbert. Can I give you a ride somewhere, Miss Frost?”

  “Home, I suppose. I can’t face customers just yet. Maybe after lunch.”

  “Nonsense,” Edith said. “If you’re expected at work, you’ve got to go.”

  As I said my farewell to her, she pressed a piece of paper into my palm. On it she’d written the information that had been on the puzzle piece: 12/11, 7:30.

  “Just in case,” Edith said.

  “Just in case what?”

  Her owlish eyes blinked at me. “Well, I don’t know.”

  “Oh, right,” I said. “Just in case.”

  11

  I WAS HALFWAY up the stairs to my apartment when Mrs. Quigley’s voice boomed out of her perpetually half-open door. “Lillian! Is that you?”

  My landlady had a trove of memories from a checkered show business career and a collection of late husbands, one of whom had bequeathed her a small building on the fringes of Hollywood that she kept in a state of faded glamour matching her own. Her inability to admit she was hard of hearing meant every conversation felt like a play in which I’d blundered onstage knowing only half my lines.

  “Yes, Mrs. Q.” I stopped at the threshold to her apartment. As usual, I smelled rosewater and the stew that seemed to be forever simmering in the event a platoon of starving soldiers turned up.

  Mrs. Q was certainly dressed to receive them in an ivory and gold housecoat. I placed her age somewhere between fifty and the Pearly Gates. “The phone’s been ringing off the hook for you! I’ve been popping out like a jack-in-the-box to answer it.”

  “I’m sorry about that. How many calls did I get?”

  “Two!” A fairly high number, both for me and for Mrs. Quigley’s in general. Life could be very sedate in a building without actresses. “It was the same woman both times,” Mrs. Quigley went on. “She wouldn’t leave her name, just said she’d call back. My land! I haven’t had this much exercise since my Ziegfeld days.”

  In the lobby, I beelined for the phone. The mystery caller was likely Kay; I’d promised to tell her what Edith said about the suitcase. I dialed the Modern Movie offices and got her at once. “You don’t know you’re allowed to leave messages?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Didn’t you call this morning?”

  “Will this conversation consist entirely of questions? No, I didn’t call. I was waiting for you to telephone me. Spill.”

  I summarized my Paramount excursion. “Wow,” Kay said. “You cost a man his livelihood and it’s not even lunchtime.”

  “That’s all I could think about on the way home.”

  “You Catholics and your crushing guilt. If this Ken stole clothes for Ruby, he deserves to be tossed out on his ear. I’ll take your mind off his woes. I got a peek at the full dossier on Armand Troncosa. Information remains thin on Natalie because she just came ove
r from the Continent, whereas lover boy Armand has been hobnobbing here for months. The Troncosas are rich, obviously. Money from real estate, mining interests, cattle. Ranches on the pampas full of gauchos like Gilbert Roland.”

  “Gilbert Roland is Mexican.”

  “He is? Are you sure?”

  “I read it in your magazine.”

  “Then he must be. The Troncosas are also important politically, very lovey-dovey with the generalissimo. I assume Argentina has a generalissimo. These places typically do. By all accounts Armand is the clan’s black sheep. Something of a hothead. The juicy rumor is he killed someone he shouldn’t have back home. A member of another prominent family. Possibly in a duel, if you can imagine. The Troncosas pulled strings and whisked him out of the country until the whole business blows over.”

  “How long does it take a blood feud to blow over? This dossier sounds like pure hearsay.”

  “You want to quibble over details? If there’s a shred of truth in it, Armand’s a likely suspect in Ruby’s murder.”

  Assuming, per Detective Morrow’s caution, that he was the right Armand. “What does Armand do, exactly?” I asked.

  “He’s a playboy. They don’t do anything. His main interest, as Jimmie Fidler mentioned, is polo. You may recall Argentina took the gold medal at the Olympics last year.”

  “I cheered at every game.”

  “I believe they’re called matches, kiddo. Armand reminds people of his countrymen’s triumph at every opportunity. He was in Berlin for the whole show. His goal is to make polo popular in these United States, and I wish him luck with that.”

  “If he puts numbers on the horses and sells red hots in the stands, I’ll take a flier on it. Too bad your impressive work is for naught. Detective Morrow thinks we’re barking up the wrong Argentine. Even Edith couldn’t convince him.”

  “Nuts. I’m staring at Armand’s address in Whitley Heights.”

  The idea was out of my mouth before I could consider the wisdom of it. “What say we take a look at this Armand character ourselves? We won’t do anything foolish. I know you’re curious. You could try spinning this into a story you can—”

  “Honey, why are you tying up the line with this palaver when I could be calling Ready right now?”

  * * *

  WHEN THE SILENT screen was king, many of its stars dwelled close to the firmament in Whitley Heights. The glamorously precarious neighborhood, perched on the hillside overlooking Hollywood Boulevard, had been the first celebrity enclave in Los Angeles. The houses on its narrow, winding streets had a Mediterranean flavor, all red slate roofs and broad windows. They offered seclusion a stone’s throw from the studios. The big names had since decamped for the more extravagant pastures of Beverly Hills, but once upon a time everyone who mattered lived up here. Charlie Chaplin, Harold Lloyd, Rudolph Valentino.

  “A few famous faces are still around,” I nattered from the backseat of Ready’s car. “Francis X. Bushman never left.”

  “I think we just drove past him delivering the mail,” Kay said.

  “Beautiful up this way,” Ready said. “I heard tell the big parties were thrown by Eugene O’Brien.”

  Kay snorted. “How do you two remember these people? Makes me think less of this Armand that he’s getting a nosebleed in the boonies.”

  Ready kept the car tooling toward the heavens. The edges of the roads were lined with iron posts linked by chains, decorative reminders that should you lose purchase, the plunge to Grauman’s Chinese Theatre was a long one. The hillside was gaudy with flora, bougainvillea and wisteria in abundance. I feared I’d get drunk on the scent of orange blossoms.

  “Hollywood Bowl coming up.” Ready swung the car around a hairpin curve and the stadium appeared below us, waiting to fill up with music and light. “Seats aren’t the best, but you can hear the concerts from here.”

  “Troncosa’s place ahoy.” Kay indicated a villa shaded by olive trees and protected by a wrought-iron gate. Ready slowed as much as he dared. The house felt shuttered even from the street. Around the side we passed a garage and a wooden door like a chapel’s entrance set in a white stone wall. Both were closed. Ready kept the car in motion.

  “Not being skilled in detection as you ladies are, I’m unsure how to proceed. I’m guessing you don’t want to knock on the man’s door. And it’s not like we can stop and have a scout.”

  We passed one of the staircases connecting the hillside’s four levels. “Let me out at the top of those stairs,” I said. “I’ll walk past the house and give it a closer look. You can pick me up on the way back down.”

  “The ol’ tourist gambit,” Kay said. “Never fails.”

  Within seconds the sound of Ready’s car faded, leaving me with only hummingbirds for accompaniment. I trod carefully down a flight of stairs that, like all of Whitley Heights, was picturesque and criminally vertiginous. On reaching its base I offered a word of thanks to Saint Elmo, patron of those who worked at altitude. Also of women undergoing childbirth, but I was saving that card for a later date.

  At Troncosa’s gate I stopped to adjust the strap on my sandal. The house remained eerily still. No newspapers on the porch, no uncollected milk bottles, every window closed. Nary a sign of life.

  On I strolled, just a gal from out of town enjoying the sunshine. The scene at the side of the house was also unchanged. I crossed the street and lingered at the summit of the staircase leading down. Hibiscus and cedar scented the breeze as I gazed at the sign touting the Hollywoodland development, the letters shimmering in the distance a promise beckoning you onward. The neighborhood was both bewitching and benighted, the Garden of Eden after the serpent had set up shop.

  Behind me, the garage door opened. I took my time turning around.

  The car in Troncosa’s garage was a Pierce-Arrow brougham in either blue or gray, the shadows masking its shade. Whereas the man who buffed its hood looked burnished, like something left in the sun until its true color had been revealed. His thick eyebrows were colonies under the protection of the motherland of jet-black hair atop his head. He moved with the preoccupied purpose of someone mentally sorting a list of errands.

  If only I’d bothered to cook up a plan for the wholly likely eventuality of someone exiting the house.

  I walked toward the garage. With each step, my hips drifted farther from their moorings. I found myself chewing a phantom piece of gum.

  “How ya doin’?” I squeaked. “This Armand Troncosa’s house?”

  Dear God. In voice and manner I had become Louise Halloran, the good-time girl who’d lived down the hall from us in Flushing. Perhaps I had stumbled onto one of the secrets of acting. I couldn’t create a character out of whole cloth, but impressions were a cakewalk.

  The man squinted at me. He didn’t speak with an accent, his voice more lightly dusted with Latin inflections. “Yes. May I help you?”

  “Are you Armand?”

  “Alas, I am not.” The man slouched against the car, amused. The errands could wait.

  I pouted in disappointment. “Is the man of the house here?”

  “You wish to sell him brushes, perhaps? Armand is abroad at the moment. May I ask your name?”

  “Lil,” I said. I realized what I was doing: playing a brassier, dimmer version of myself, the me who would have stayed Ruby’s friend. “Your turn.”

  “Esteban Riordan, at your service.”

  “That’s a funny kind of a handle.” Life really was simpler when you could say whatever you wanted.

  Esteban, fortunately, did not take offense. “Equal parts Spanish and Irish. My family moved to Argentina decades ago.”

  “I love Argentina. They won the gold medal in polo at the Olympics last year, y’know.”

  “I do indeed.” Esteban puffed with pride. “My brother Luis is a member of the team. An alternate, but still.”

  “Really? I wish polo was more popular. You never hear about any of the matches. So are you and Armand friends?”

  “Th
e closest. I also work for him. I’m his unofficial majordomo, you might say.”

  No acting required here. “Major … domo?”

  “I tend to the small aspects of Armand’s life so he may focus on the larger ones, like bringing polo the audience it deserves. And you, Lil? How do you know Armand?”

  I had to proceed with caution. I desperately wanted to confirm Armand and by extension Natalie were Ruby’s new highbred companions, but without compromising Detective Morrow’s efforts. I wondered what Louise Halloran would do. Came the answer: Play demure. As broadly as possible. I batted my eyes and kicked at the oil stain on the driveway. “See, I don’t really know him. My friend Ruby does, and she said I should make his acquaintance. Do you know my friend Ruby?”

  The name had no effect on Esteban whatsoever. “Armand has met so many people it’s difficult to keep them straight. She has been to the house, your friend?”

  “That’s right. She met Armand through her friend Natalie. Do you know Natalie?”

  Some unruly emotion—possibly fear—flickered across Esteban’s face only to vanish beneath an implacable mask, like a skim of ice forming over an ominous dark shape in the water. He volleyed my question back. “Do you know Natalie?”

  “I—no, but—”

  “But your friend does. Ruby. Has Ruby seen Natalie? Does she know where Natalie is? Who Natalie is with?”

  Stumped for a safe answer, I stared at him. Esteban eliminated the distance between us. “Please. You must tell me.”

  “I, I can’t. I don’t know.”

  Esteban placed his hand on my upper arm as if he were clinging to me. “Unless … has Natalie sent you to test Armand’s affections? Has she?”

  I was flummoxed. Any semblance of Louise Halloran was lost to me now.

  Esteban saw the car before I did. Ready brought it to a halt and opened his door. I slipped Esteban’s grasp and darted around him. “That’s my ride. Excuse me.”

  Ready waited until I was in the car before getting back in himself. Esteban stepped into the street to watch us go.

  “You all right, Lillian?” Ready asked.

  “Is that Armand?” Kay demanded.