Design for Dying

by Renee Patrick

  “She was. You two couldn’t meet face-to-face. You’d have queered Ruby’s disguise.”

  “I know that now. But at the time it only confirmed my suspicion Laurence was seeing this Natalie behind my back. I had to know, don’t you understand?”

  “I understand. So you hired Winton Beckett.”

  Her nod was accompanied by a shuddering sob. Tracks of mascara bracketed her nose, but somehow she was still gorgeous and somehow I still felt sorry for her. The world was a truly unjust place. “He followed Laurence for two weeks and told me I had nothing to worry about.”

  I wondered if Beckett had ever formulated a sentence containing even a kernel of truth. “And what did he tell you late last night or this morning, once he knew the truth about Natalie was out?”

  “How … how did you know?”

  “I used to read tea leaves.”

  “Beckett called this morning before Detective Morrow arrived. He told me he had photographs of Laurence and Ruby together. He wanted money to hush them up. I asked why I should pay since I’m the wronged party. He said the photos only existed because I suspected my husband of having an affair. Worse, he was having an affair, and the woman in question was murdered. He’s right. The scandal would ruin me.”

  “You told Gene this?”

  “No. I didn’t. I couldn’t.”

  “You will. Your career isn’t the most important thing on God’s green earth.”

  “Lillian!”

  “Listen to me. If Beckett didn’t kill Ruby, he knows who did. You have to tell Gene. Or I will.”

  “You’re right. I was only … it’s been a terrible day, you see.” She flashed a life-will-go-on smile as she palmed the tears from her cheeks. “It’s not often you learn your late best friend seduced your husband under a false identity and now you’re being blackmailed because of it. I’ll call Detective Morrow once we finish filming. I will.” She caught sight of herself in a mirror and yelped. “Good Lord, I look a fright! I need to get to Makeup at once!”

  With a flutter of robe, she was gone. Her performance machinery was clanking back into place, but wasn’t fully oiled yet. I didn’t believe for an instant she’d call Gene.

  * * *

  THE FIRST TWO phones I encountered were props. I was going for the hat trick when a voice said, “Hey, don’t I know you?”

  A tall man studied me with puzzlement. His jug ears did seem familiar. “You an actress or something?”

  “I tend toward something.”

  Behind him the gingham dollies trooped back to the set, arranging themselves in concentric circles. “Cripes, I remember! I was at your screen test.”

  My heart fell to my shoes and continued on toward Peking. “You remember that? It was ages ago.”

  “Oh, but sister, you were the worst.” He shook his head and started to walk away. “Maybe ever.”

  “At least I made an impression,” I hollered after him. It wasn’t much consolation. Especially when I was shushed by five people.

  A preoccupied Laurence Minot leaned forward in his director’s chair. With his call of “Action,” the set filled with music and tapping. Relentless, implacable tapping.

  The dancers had surrounded an oversized canopy bed. Diana feigned sleep while a dream sprang to life around her. The girls tapped like their lives depended on it, the machine-gun clatter echoing. The lead dancer’s feet were a blur while her face held a frozen grin. I feared she could lose her footing or her sanity at any moment. The music climaxed as two burly men just out of frame mercifully hoisted her before the camera for her close-up.

  Laurence issued an unimpressed “Cut.” He spoke a few words to an assistant at his side, then lit a cigarette. My phone call could wait.

  “Not now, I’m thinking.” Laurence waved his hand to dismiss me and almost ignited my sleeve.

  “I don’t work for you.”

  He turned quickly toward me, then retreated as much as the canvas chair would allow. “I’m beginning to wonder if you work for anyone, considering how often you’re underfoot. Here to commiserate with my lovely wife?”

  “I already have. We were talking about Natalie Szabo.”

  “A bolt from the blue, that. Diana’s old pal pulling a fast one on everybody.”

  “Including you.”

  He shrugged. “No sense denying it now.”

  “Not everybody had met Ruby before. You had.”

  “Along with three hundred other people at my wedding. Ruby was Diana’s friend, not mine.”

  “If I put on a wig and some of Claudette Colbert’s togs, would you recognize me?”

  “You’re a sight taller than Claudette. And I could shoot you from both sides.”

  “Touché. When you two became involved, did you know Natalie was practically engaged to Armand Troncosa?”

  Laurence flinched, to my immense pleasure. “I was only involved with Natalie professionally. And I never want to hear that greasy rat bastard’s name again.”

  “Did you two cross swords?”

  “We exchanged words.”

  “On what subject? Horseflesh? Tweed prices?”

  “He objected to my interest in Natalie. Or Ruby. I explained the facts in plainest English, then made the mistake of turning my back on that perfumed pretty boy. He sucker-punched me.”

  “That doesn’t seem like Armand’s style. I’m picturing you taking a wild swing and him hitting back. Accurately.”

  “Think what you want. I’ve got more pressing problems.”

  “And one of them is named Beckett.”

  He hurtled out of his chair. “How do you know that? You didn’t hear it from Diana because I haven’t told her.”

  “Great. Beckett’s blackmailing the pair of you and neither one’s told the other or the police. What does he have on you?”

  “Some photographs that could be easily misconstrued in light of Ruby’s death.”

  “Sure. It looks like you’re canoodling when you’re actually discussing Ibsen. That’s the only hold Beckett has on you?”

  “It’s all the hold he needs.” Laurence gazed in disgust at the neon meringue that was his set. “Fighting to save my job when it’s been reduced to this. I directed Journey’s End on stage, you know. Brothers in arms, mankind at his best. That was something real. But this gossamer nonsense?”

  “It looks like a wonderful dream.”

  “You’d say that. You’re a woman. All you want is a happy ending.”

  “What’s wrong with a happy ending?”

  “Name a single soul in line for one.”

  The jug-eared fellow told Laurence the next setup was ready. I left to continue my quest for a phone. I didn’t trust either of the Minots to do the right thing.

  I trudged across the Lodestar lot as the sun set and starlets fanned out through the city for highballs and merriment. Ahead for me was the meatloaf at the corner diner. If I timed my entrance right, I could claim the thick slice at the heel. It wasn’t much of a happy ending. But I’d settle for it.

  24

  ON THE SEVENTH day, I did not rest. The usual Sunday horde of marcelled Visigoths laid waste to Tremayne’s, and I did my level best to help them sack and pillage. I’d told Gene all I’d learned and hoped for an update without expecting or receiving one. That night I ate stew with Mrs. Quigley and Miss Sarah, listened to Jack Benny, and turned in feeling as giddy as I once did on Christmas Eve, certain my dreams would be fulfilled come morning.

  But Monday’s newspapers brought only coal for my stocking. They contained no mention of Princess Natalie’s true identity, the absence giving rise to many a dark surmise: that Barney Groff was again abroad in the land; and that Diana and Laurence were conspiring together, jointly stonewalling Gene about Beckett’s blackmail.

  Late in the afternoon I held out a parcel to a well-preserved older lady but she made no move to receive it, transfixed by a sight over my shoulder. Her voice was an ardent whisper. “Good Lord. Isn’t that Ramon Novarro?”

  I t
hrew a look behind me. “No, ma’am. Ramon is shorter.” The woman accepted her purchases and reluctantly walked away.

  Only then did Armand Troncosa approach the counter, his chalk-stripe suit as black as his mood. His aubergine shirt and purple-and-white necktie made me realize I knew what “resplendent” meant. “Lillian. I trust it is not an imposition to visit you at your place of employment.”

  “It’s perfectly fine. How are you?”

  “I am en route to see your Detective Morrow. He has requested a list of every gift I gave to Natalya. He wishes to search for them in…” He faltered, either out of distaste for or unfamiliarity with the next phrase. “Pawnbroker shops.”

  Gene was turning over rocks hunting for Winton Beckett, following up on what Mavis Kreutzer had told me. I wondered if he’d bearded her in her borrowed den, and found myself hoping he hadn’t.

  “Imagine if Natalya and I had wed.” Troncosa’s voice had lost its silky tone. “What a fool I would have been.”

  “I think Ruby tried to spare you that fate.”

  “Spare me? It was her plan all along to gain my fortune.”

  “You said yourself she was reluctant to become engaged. Perhaps marriage wasn’t part of her plan. Perhaps by refusing your proposal, she had your best interests in mind.”

  “Perhaps you defend her because she was your friend.”

  The accusatory edge of his words drove me back a step. At the same time an obscure loyalty asserted itself, not so much to Ruby as to Natalie. Ruby’s greatest performance, one I’d never have the opportunity to witness firsthand.

  “Truth be told,” I said, “Ruby wasn’t much of a friend. But you should know she didn’t intend you any harm.”

  “I know no such thing. I know nothing about Ruby, other than she scattered my tokens of affection to the four winds for a pittance.”

  “Ruby didn’t do that,” I blurted out. “That was someone else.”

  “So she had a partner in her deceit? Hardly an endorsement of her character.”

  I kept silent, having already said too much. That gave Troncosa time to turn my words over and come up with a more accurate interpretation.

  “Unless … Ruby was forced into this charade. Is that what you suggest, Lillian? Was she manipulated into deceiving me?” Troncosa reached across the counter and seized my wrist. Not forcefully; he might not even have been aware of his action. But I was finding it impossible to ignore. “If that is so, you must tell me. I demand the name of this Svengali.”

  Something brutish and, worse, wounded lurked behind Troncosa’s eyes. I recalled Kay’s dire speculation that he was in exile after killing a man in Argentina and found it all too easy to swallow. As for the physical act of swallowing, that had suddenly become difficult.

  “Is there a problem?” Mr. Valentine’s voice boomed across the floor, his shoes clicking briskly against the linoleum. Never was I so happy to see a chartreuse pocket square.

  By the time he reached us, Troncosa was staring at his hand and wondering who had wrapped it around mine. “No,” he said. “My apologies.” With a bow he struck off toward the elevators.

  My boss watched him go, then looked at me. “Miss Frost?”

  “It’s an extremely long story,” I finally said.

  “I see. Heaven forfend we detain you unnecessarily.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Your shift is almost over. I suggest we discuss this in the morning.”

  * * *

  I COLLECTED MY purse and my thoughts, then started for the employees’ entrance. When I saw Esteban Riordan battling through shoppers toward me, I almost turned tail and ran. Only the concern on his face made me stand my ground. He raised his hands, leery of spooking me.

  “Lillian. Armand is beside himself. He wishes to make amends.”

  “I don’t care to see him right now.”

  Esteban lowered his eyes. “I understand. But you of all people can appreciate Armand is under tremendous strain. He has said and perhaps done things he regrets. He still owes you a great deal, and will not be at ease until he apologizes. Please, I know how much this means to him. And I will be present when he speaks with you.”

  Saying the last sentence pained him. What choice did I have? “Very well. But outside the store.”

  Esteban moved to touch my arm, only to reconsider.

  The Pierce-Arrow looked vivid in the glow of the display window, Tremayne’s latest fall fashions arranged on a family of mannequins seated around a Thanksgiving dinner complete with papier-mâché turkey. Troncosa climbed out of the car as we neared. Esteban smoothly positioned himself between us, a protective gesture that only made me feel more defenseless. Troncosa also didn’t cotton to it, if the snap of his head was any indication.

  “Lillian. My behavior was inexcusable, yet I beg your forgiveness. To put you in such a position at work is unconscionable. Shall I speak to someone in authority at the store?”

  “Better we should forget it.”

  “As you wish. Allow me to escort you home.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “But I do. And it will permit us to have the conversation I came to have with you. You must tell me about Ruby. Tell me about the woman I loved but did not know. Tell me something to make her real to me.”

  She was a hard-eyed dreamer who kept company with Tommy Carpa and pilfered family treasures from unsuspecting roommates. I didn’t think that would go over well in Troncosa’s current state of mind. And if I let him work on me, I might slip up and give him Beckett’s name.

  I shook my head. “That would be a mistake.”

  “Please. Your cup overflows with memories while mine is empty. You cannot share?”

  It was a cheap ploy, and my almost falling for it doomed his chances. “No, I’m sorry.”

  The conversation wasn’t going as he’d expected. Troncosa’s savage side peered out at me again then darted away. “You surprise me, Lillian. You would prefer to leave me thinking the worst of Ruby?”

  “I can’t help what you think.” I glanced toward the employees’ door but my sole potential agent of deliverance was Horace, the ancient security guard armed only with the overpowering aroma of the homemade liniment he used on his rheumatic joints. “I have to catch the streetcar.”

  Troncosa, not to be denied, slipped around Esteban. Who in turn shadowed him and started to speak. The blast of a taxi’s horn drowned out his words. A reckless driver took the corner too fast, tires screeching. Before I could turn toward the commotion I heard a sharp crack, and the plate glass display window behind me shattered.

  Esteban yelled “Get down!” and hurled himself at Troncosa. I dove to the concrete as a second, then third gunshot blasted the display. Mannequins toppled.

  The car, a black sedan, never stopped moving. It sped down the street, a fusillade of horns in its wake.

  Esteban helped me to my feet as Troncosa brushed himself off. Most of the window had fallen into the display but shards of glass littered the sidewalk.

  “Are you all right?” Esteban asked.

  “I think so.” I looked at my shaking hands, spotting a few scrapes on my palms and one or two on my knees. “I may not be a little later.”

  A policeman sprinted over and demanded details. Troncosa provided them in a steady voice, so composed you’d have thought he’d been shot at before. Maybe he had. The officer jotted down the particulars. “Stay here while I call this in.”

  “Raise Detective Morrow in Robbery Homicide. Tell him it’s Miss Frost.” The officer eyed me skeptically, but my hands were trembling more now and demanded my full attention. Esteban wrapped his arm around me. I left it where it was.

  Horace the security guard, invigorated by the action, stood a post before the remains of the window. Within moments every Tremayne’s employee and customer had shown up to rubberneck the damage. I wanted to tell Georgie the stock boy to fetch a broom and start sweeping. The street was a mess.

  When Gene arrived, he noted Esteban’s arm on my s
houlders without comment and asked after my well-being. Hansen snubbed me, climbing up into the ruined display and poking among the broken glass. “And here I thought I was the only one ever wanted to open up on a family dinner.”

  “Mr. Troncosa, I was expecting you downtown,” Gene said. “Someone want to walk me through what happened?”

  This time I took the lead, Troncosa and Esteban confirming and elaborating. Yes, it was a black car. No, we hadn’t seen the driver. No, none of us noticed the license plate.

  Gene drummed the cover of his notebook with his pen. “Now for Professor Quiz’s main question. Who was the unknown person in the dark car aiming at?”

  Hansen held up the carcass of the papier-mâché turkey.”It probably wasn’t old Tom here.”

  “It was obviously me.” Troncosa shouldered forward to brave some phantom firing squad. “Who else could it be?”

  “Possibly Miss Frost, given she works at Tremayne’s. Did anyone know you were coming to the store, Mr. Troncosa?”

  “No. But we could have easily been followed. Perhaps it’s best I leave this city if I’m being used as target practice on public streets.”

  “If it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer nobody go anywhere just yet.”

  “I hope that doesn’t include me,” I said, “because these stockings are a lost cause. I’m going to replace them. A lady likes to look her best even at times of adversity.” I stepped toward the employees’ door, knees and palms burning. I hadn’t hit the pavement that hard since grammar school recess, when gangly limbs meant jumping rope qualified me for hazard pay.

  Gene pulled me close, concern in his eyes and spearmint on his breath. He pointedly placed his hand where Esteban’s had been on my shoulder. I felt a reassuring squeeze. “You sure you’re all right?”

  “If I’m worrying about my clothes, I’m probably okay.”

  “I understand Troncosa visited you in the store and came on kind of strong.”

  “Yes,” I said, omitting to the extent he seems capable of a crime of passion, like killing the woman who gulled him. “You don’t really think someone could have been shooting at me.”