Design for Dying

by Renee Patrick

  “I don’t like the sound of that. May I impose upon you to come with me? I could use your help.”

  “Of course. Where are we going?”

  “That’s another long story. Why don’t we take turns enlightening each other in my car?”

  I had barely settled myself when she pointed her sedan at Gower and let fly. “What’s our secret mission?”

  “To locate Travis. Adele received a call from Howard Greer. He ran the department before Travis and hired me on. Howard has his own salon in Hollywood. He and Travis enjoy a few drinks now and again.”

  “And sometimes more than a few?”

  “Precisely. That’s where the trouble starts. They were out all night. Howard offered Travis a ride home, but Travis said he’d rather take the streetcar. Last month we found him shuttling to Santa Monica and back. Having a lovely time, he said. Never mind I was sick with worry.”

  “Riding the streetcar with a snootful doesn’t sound so bad.”

  “Travis’s reputation has suffered enough. The studio’s already weary of his cavalier behavior. This will be another black mark against his name, unless we find him first and pour several gallons of hot coffee into him.”

  “You want to protect him.”

  “Travis is the best designer in pictures, perhaps ever. I’ve learned more from him than I could ever hope to repay.” She glanced over at me. “I take it you’ve heard otherwise about our relationship.”

  “Just gossip. But if Travis were let go, wouldn’t you be top choice to replace him?”

  “Unlikely.” She set her jaw and kept her eyes on the road. “Lead designer is a role to be cast like any other, and the thinking is I lack the star power. I’m a woman and I came up through the ranks. I don’t have the requisite status, the pedigree. Howard began with Lady Duff Gordon. I grew up in a Nevada mining camp, tying scarves on burros that happened by. Travis had his own studio in New York, designing for Ziegfeld and society women. Mary Pickford married Douglas Fairbanks in a Banton original. My career began dressing elephants in The Wanderer. I used real fruit and flowers in the garlands. The beasts ate them all before the cameras started rolling.”

  I couldn’t help it. I laughed. Edith mustered a tight smile as the car continued rocketing forward.

  “The studio is already auditioning replacements for Travis and they’re holding true to form. They’ve brought Ernest Dryden out from New York. He’s designing Bing Crosby’s next picture.” She chuckled darkly. “Ernest made his reputation on The Garden of Allah, but those are all Travis’s gowns. Dietrich loathed Ernest’s designs and insisted Travis take over. Travis did Ernest’s best work, and Ernest may well end up replacing him.”

  “Maybe you can stay on with Mr. Dryden.”

  “No. New brooms sweep clean. I’m too associated with Travis. I’ll go where he goes, provided he’ll have me. And if he doesn’t, well, I can always dust off my teaching credential and go back to giving French lessons.” She didn’t sound enthused by the idea. “I do wish Travis would stay here. If only he’d settle down.”

  Edith squinted through the windshield. “There’s a streetcar ahead. Keep your eyes peeled. If he’s not on this one we’ll wait at the Santa Monica turnaround and pray he didn’t switch to another line.”

  The streetcar rattled past, hissing. I couldn’t pick Travis Banton out of a lineup but doubted he resembled the only male passenger aboard, a burly man in coveralls with a bag of tools under his arm.

  Edith glanced up, too, and quickly corrected our drift into the next lane in response to my ladylike yelp of terror. “We weren’t even close to hitting that truck. On to Santa Monica it is. Tell me about Tremayne’s. Did the flowers help?”

  “Tremayne’s and I are past flowers.” When I finished my story, Edith shook her head in something miles from sympathy.

  “I must say I’m surprised, Lillian, coming in downcast over not having anything to wear to this party when loss of steady income is of substantially more import.”

  “I know, but—” Any excuse would wither under Edith’s scrutiny. “The party is Saturday night.”

  “We’ve solved that problem. Now, about your career. Are you considering positions outside of retail?”

  “I’m up for anything from rodeo clown to fan dancer.”

  “What do you think about working in Wardrobe? Securing you a position could be one of my last acts at Paramount. No special treatment, mind you. You’d be picking up pins off the floor like everyone else. It’s a good way to learn the business.”

  “But I can’t draw. Or sew.”

  “It’s not talent that matters in this work but drive. And you’re not lacking in that. I offer myself as a case in point. I would ask you to keep this incident under your hat as I’m not exactly proud of it. I was a student when Howard Greer placed an ad for sketch artists. I knew he prized versatility, so I brought along plenty of sketches and was hired on the spot.”

  “That’s wonderful. But as I said, I can’t draw.”

  “If I might finish … not all the sketches were mine. I borrowed some from my classmates—”

  “And passed them off as your own? You lied your way into Paramount?”

  Her look would have sent a charging bull up a tree. “No, I did not. I explicitly told Mr. Greer, ‘This is what we’re doing at school.’ And it was. Once I’d gotten the job, I worked harder than anyone else. What matters is I created the opportunity.”

  It was impossible to contemplate a job offer at breakneck speed. “Let me think about it,” I said.

  “Thinking about it is a luxury you can’t afford. The world says no on a regular basis. It’s up to you to say yes. Here’s another streetcar.”

  We stopped at a traffic light with the streetcar on our left. I clambered into the backseat. A dapper man sat with his arm on the window ledge as if he were grand marshal in a parade. He waggled his fingers at me then touched the brim of his straw boater. “Good morning!” he called.

  “We may be in luck,” I told Edith.

  The gent’s gaze shifted to her. “I’ll be damned. Edie, is that you?”

  “Travis!” Edith replied. “Stay right there.”

  Horn blaring, she scissored across the right lane and pulled into a parking space. We bailed out and sprinted to the next streetcar stop. Panting, I pulled myself aboard.

  Travis Banton rose, the picture of pickled dignity in a gray suit with a blue striped tie, both slightly withered after a night’s revelry. He had a puggish nose and full lips that unfurled in a smile. “What a lovely surprise.” He snatched a handrail as the streetcar started forward again. “Will you ladies accompany me on my excursion?”

  “We’ll sit awhile, Travis.” Edith wiped off her spectacles.

  “It’s a beautiful run. Busy streets yielding to the quiet of the beach, serenity only a few stops away. We’ll finish with a swim. The very thing on such a day.” He took a nip from a silver flask then held it out to me.

  “Not until the sun passes the yardarm,” I said.

  Knowing not to offer any to Edith, Banton downed another slug then stowed the flask. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of making your acquaintance.”

  “This is Lillian Frost. Why don’t I drive us all back to the studio?”

  “This conveyance is smoother. I’ve ridden with you before. And what about our day at the beach?”

  “Right now we should get you back to work. A line of actresses awaits your singular magic.” The flattery sounded forced in Edith’s delivery.

  “Along with spying eyes, reporting my every false move. It’s no life for us artistic types. And you could take care of those temperamental ladies with one hand behind your back.”

  “They don’t want me, Travis. They want you.”

  Banton stared intently at Edith, as if trying to gaze through her glasses into her soul. But the lenses were too thick. He abandoned that enterprise and grinned at me.

  “What say you, Miss Frost? Shall I return to the studio, home
to ceaseless toil and friends like faithful Edith? Or carry on with my poor man’s holiday?”

  “The Pacific isn’t going anywhere,” I said.

  “Miss Frost, you are as wise as you are tall.” He stood with the grandeur of a surrendering general and pulled the bell cord. “Driver! We shall disembark here. This world will not glamorize itself.”

  28

  “STOP FIDGETING. YOU’RE making me carsick.”

  “I’m not fidgeting, Vi. I’m preventing wear on these clothes.” I adjusted the gold chain belt adorning my Paramount-issued slacks. We were doubled up in the backseat of Ready’s car en route to Addison Rice’s soiree. I’d been to parties before. I wasn’t fidgeting. Honest.

  Kay swiveled in her forward perch, pencil in position behind her ear. “I’m warning you two. I’m staying ’til the bitter end, so if you get bored find your own way home.”

  “Bored? I don’t plan on being bored,” Vi said.

  “She’s in the Prince Charming market,” I added.

  “Too bad I’m dressed like Cinderella before the ball.”

  The straps on Vi’s jumper were down for the night. The extra glimpse of peaches and cream skin would hopefully prevent anyone from noticing she’d relocated the garment’s troublesome buttons. “Oh, knock it off,” I said. “You look lovely.”

  “But am I de-lovely? Say, didn’t Bob Hope introduce that song on Broadway? Think he’ll be here tonight?” With her clear soprano, Vi trilled the chorus of Cole Porter’s hit.

  Kay cut her off. “Can you hyenas keep it down? I need to prepare.”

  “Sorry, Mother.”

  Anticipation mounted along with Ready’s car as we scaled the hillside. Once through the gates of Addison’s estate fairy lights twinkled in the trees like celestial escorts guiding us heavenward.

  “Reckon you could fire a cannon in Hollywood tonight and not nick anyone’s ride.” Ready eased us out of a long queue of cars waiting to discharge their passengers and expertly maneuvered into a tight squeeze of a parking spot.

  “And I thought horses were your specialty,” I said.

  “Most fellers who hire on for parking detail don’t know squat about motor vehicles. And we don’t have time to wait. Kay has work to do. Don’t you, honey?”

  A slamming door was her response. Ready loped after her. Vi and I indulged in some last second preening, then joined the guests streaming through the massive front door into the foyer.

  “I’d better not be the most ridiculously dressed person here tonight,” Vi fumed.

  One glance at the reception room walls, papered with the candid photographs snapped by Ken and his associates, indicated Vi would be spared that indignity. It was quite the gallery, luminaries with startled mugs looking like they’d been served a subpoena rather than an invitation. In the distance I spotted a monumental top hat straight out of Lewis Carroll, garnished with a deep purple ribbon. Addison, naturally, was underneath it. He greeted each of his guests warmly and then, with a sotto voce pointer from Mrs. Somers, steered them either left or right to compare their current attire to that in the photograph. I wondered if he’d dare send anyone scurrying home for not matching their two-dimensional selves, and decided he would. Addison took his frivolity seriously.

  He slapped a tall man in tennis whites on the back. Before I could confirm it was Cary Grant, it was our turn.

  “The guest of honor!” Addison cried. “Survivor of the Battle of Tremayne’s Gulch.” He twiddled his fingers on the brim of his hat. “Like the topper? Easiest way for folks to find me in the forest of folderol.”

  “I love it. Thank you for inviting me even though I lied to you about being a reporter.”

  “Nonsense. Your stunt put me in mind of Torchy Blane. Glenda Farrell is sensational in those pictures. She’s here somewhere.” He drew me aside so we could speak in confidence. “The invitation is my way of thanking you. Detective Morrow explained you advocated on my behalf and helped keep my name out of the papers.”

  “I was happy to do it.”

  “I only wish you didn’t have to. As God is my witness, I believed Ruby and Natalie were two different girls. Maybe I should come out of retirement. All this leisure is making my brain go to pot along with my belly.” He patted his ample midsection. “After all you’ve been through it would be criminal to deny you entry. But rules are rules.”

  With a pained smile from the swollen Mrs. Somers, he led us to the photo Ken had taken and inspected it with a mock stern expression. The image depicted an ungainly scrum of two bodies, my eyes huge with confusion as Vi vaulted to my aid. I was baffled, Vi eager; Ken had admirably captured us in our natural states. Part of my bare calf was visible, as was a hint of coarse gray sweatshirt sleeve.

  Addison tutted. “Your comely friend looks the same, but I don’t believe that’s your blouse peeking out from behind her.”

  “Oh, I can vouch for her,” Vi said. “Lillian always wears silk at home. She positively lounges in it.”

  Addison rubbed each of his chins in sequence. “Given the inconclusive evidence, the court has no choice but to decide on your behalf. Go in and enjoy yourselves! Lillian, we’ll discuss your adventure at length once you have a few drinks in you.”

  The reception room opened onto the vast slate patio where I’d sipped iced tea with Addison. Two well-stocked bars now stood sentry at either end. A few steps down the swimming pool, lit from beneath, didn’t yet have any takers while four tentlike cabanas stood empty, their canvas sides pulled back with ties. To the right of the pool a dance floor had been laid over the grass. A swing band played while a couple dressed for golf made a valiant effort at a rumba, cleats clicking on parquetry. My eyes skimmed the crowd, illuminated by the occasional burst of a flashbulb courtesy of a roving band of photographers. Everywhere I looked there were beautiful people in bathrobes, shower caps and—

  “There’s a gorilla here,” Vi said.

  “It’s someone in a suit. Either that or the poor brute was trained to guzzle martinis. He must have horned in on someone’s snapshot, like you.”

  A flame-haired beauty passed us, the barely there towel around her held in place by a diamond brooch the size of salad plate. Famous faces and white-jacketed waiters alike brazenly studied her walk. She was such an eye-catcher even I ogled her, not noticing that Bill Ihnen had stopped by my side.

  “Now that,” he said, “is a safety pin.”

  “I bet she feels safer with it on.”

  “And I bet she takes it off before the night is over.”

  “Is it going to be that kind of party?” Vi asked.

  “Would that bother you?”

  “Are you kidding? That’s why we’re here.”

  Bill waved over a blonde on a chaise longue whose lavender orchid corsage, I noted, perfectly complemented Bill’s tie. He’d taken Edith’s advice. The blonde shook her head and pointed blame at her shoes. “My date,” Bill said. “I don’t think she’s getting out of that chair. On her feet all day, dancing in Laurence Minot’s latest inanity at Lodestar.”

  “The director of Hearts in Spring is on the guest list, along with his wife.”

  “Then I can tell him to stop being handsy with the chorines.” He left with a wink and a promise to find us later.

  “It’s no fair,” Vi said. “Besides that knockout in the towel, I’ve seen two girls in swimsuits and one in a nightie. But the men are covered up. Where are the physiques?”

  “I see what you mean. Not a torso in sight.” I nodded toward a broad back in a linen jacket. “How come he couldn’t have been lying poolside when his invite showed up?”

  “You’ve already seen him with his shirt off. It’s Johnny Weissmuller. You know, Tarzan.”

  “That explains the gorilla.”

  We retrieved some martinis, already drunk on the atmosphere. The warm night air and paper lanterns lent a dreamlike aspect to the proceedings. By the time we circled the dance floor it had filled up nicely. A man with shaving cream on half his face
fox-trotted carefully with a woman in pajamas. Bill had even persuaded his date to rise from her sick chair. She was a wonderful dancer—and so, to my surprise, was Bill.

  “Excuse me, weren’t you in the papers?”

  I turned to see who’d addressed me and a blinding flash was my reward. At least this time I knew who it was.

  As my eyes recovered, Ken Nolan lowered his camera but not his guard. “Hello, Frost. I see you and your friend made it past Cerberus at the door.”

  “Addison has a soft spot for me. Do you work for him now?”

  “Tonight I do. Photographers at a party. I don’t get it. Now everyone will be on their best behavior.” He copped a coupe of champagne from a passing tray and downed it in one.

  “None for me, thanks,” I said.

  “I have to keep my strength up. At least you two look like you’re enjoying yourselves. Unlike those Gloomy Gusses yonder.” He nodded across the dance floor. Armand Troncosa and Esteban Riordan stood side by side like they were at the rail at Santa Anita and had lost sight of the nag they’d gambled their bankroll on.

  “Saw that cowboy friend of yours. Maybe I’ll stalk him for a while.” Ken drifted patioward, then about-faced and eyeballed my clothes with alarm. “Hang on. Where’d you get those duds?”

  “There’s Ready.” I pointed. Ken turned. I snagged Vi’s elbow and ran.

  We worked our way back around the floor. Troncosa was dressed in a full riding habit while Esteban wore surprisingly dingy sweat clothes and a pained expression. Troncosa kissed my hand then Vi’s once I introduced her. “I am pleased to see you out after the unpleasantness at the store,” he said.

  “Likewise. Where did Addison’s army catch you?”

  “I was about to participate in my usual polo match at the Vista Del Mar Athletic Club while Esteban did his pentathlon training. I must confess Addison’s sense of humor eludes me. To be at such a function without a cravat…” He trailed off, mourning a bygone age. Esteban, meanwhile, looked ready to dig himself a hole and lie in it.

  “You’re not concerned someone may take another shot at you?”

  “My sole concern, again, is should that unlikely event occur I will not be wearing a necktie. I must show my enemies a Troncosa is not easily cowed.” He flashed his pearly whites at the night and then exclusively at Vi. “In my country, the best way to do that is to dance. Shall we?”