by Donis Casey
“Please, Lord, just let me be sick.”
~Standing on the Precipice…
What lurks below?
Is it disaster, or the fulfillment of all her dreams?
Blanche decides to jump.~
It was almost noon when a man whom Blanche had never seen drove up to the cabin and loaded all the trunks, boxes, and cases into the back of a truck. Mrs. Gilbert introduced her to Bert Warren, the caretaker, who told her to “just call me Bert.”
Blanche asked Bert if he would be living in the cabin in Miss Bolding’s absence, but he laughed. “No, Miss, I’m just the caretaker. Miss Bolding only uses this cabin when she’s here in Arizona making a picture with Mr. Mix. Sometimes she loans it to friends of hers, but most of the time nobody lives here.”
Blanche was shocked. Alma’s “cabin” was twice the size of the house she had grown up in. It seemed an incredible waste of a perfectly good habitation for it to stand empty for most of the year.
Mrs. Gilbert handed Bert the key to the cabin, and the women piled into the truck for the long drive over barely graded mountain trails to Ash Fork, the nearest stop for the California Limited, the luxury rail liner that ran from Chicago to Los Angeles. The trip was hair-raising, at least for Blanche. Mrs. Gilbert concentrated on her knitting and Alma seemed to enjoy the death-defying ride up and down the winding, cliff-hugging road. By the time they finally reached Ash Fork four hours later, even Alma had had enough. Bert pulled up in front of the Escalante Hotel, another Harvey establishment that served as the train station as well as a hotel and restaurant for travelers. Their train to Los Angeles did not depart until an hour before midnight, so they had plenty of time to rest. Blanche was starving, and was eager to try out the Harvey House restaurant, but Mrs. Gilbert nixed the idea. In the first place, Alma was too famous. Her fans would never leave her alone to eat her dinner in peace. More to the point, Mrs. Gilbert didn’t feel like going through the humiliation of being turned away at the door.
So Alma paraded through the lobby in all her glory, with her entourage (Mrs. Gilbert, Blanche, and Jack Dempsey) trailing along behind her, and requested the temporary use of a suite so they could have a quiet dinner and rest before the 11:00 p.m. train to Los Angeles. The hotel staff fell all over themselves to accommodate her, and for several hours the three women and the dog luxuriated in comfort while feasting on steak.
* * *
The trip to California was a wonder. Blanche was used to train trips spent trying to doze on a hard bench, scrunched up next to one sibling or another, and arriving at her destination hungry, exhausted, and bent over like a question mark. It was amazing how much more pleasant a long journey is when you have a private cabin and an actual bed in which to sleep away the miles.
Blanche was surprised to see that it was full daylight when Alma roused her the next morning. The actress was dressed in a long-sleeved turquoise frock with a white scarf around her neck, bright-eyed and ready for action.
“Come on, lazybones, keep me company in the dining car. I’m famished!”
Blanche blinked the sleep out of her eyes and sat up. “My goodness, I haven’t slept so well in I don’t know how long.”
“Train travel will do that for you. Lull you to sleep and whet your appetite”.
“What time is it, Miss?”
Alma gave the girl’s leg a slap. “Who knows? It is past the dawn, puppy, and we’re headed west. We’re headed home!”
Blanche’s canine bedmate, Jack Dempsey, was bouncing around the berth like a hairy maniac, happy to be alive and in the company of gentlefolk who didn’t want to kick him to China. Blanche climbed down from the top bunk and caught Jack Dempsey in her arms as he launched himself at her.
The bottom berth was empty and had been converted back to a seat. “Is Mrs. Gilbert waiting for us in the dining car?”
Alma’s beaming grin slipped just a little. “No, Delphinia didn’t want to come to the dining car. She’s in the sitting room of my cabin, helping herself to a tray that I had brought in for her. We’ll drop Jack off to keep her company. Now, slap on some duds, baby. I don’t like to eat alone.”
In the dining car, Blanche felt less like a breakfast companion than a lady-in-waiting to the queen. It was rare that Alma was able to eat two bites together before someone interrupted her to gush over her beauty or talent or both. Blanche thought that was too bad, because breakfast was a delicious mélange of dishes that she had never eaten before, kippers and fruit cups in syrup and omelets with artichoke hearts. But Alma wasn’t bothered at all. She was nourished and energized more by the adulation than by any food.
What would it be like to be loved like that? What would it be like if everyone you met fell all over themselves to praise you, to try and guess what you want before you even know yourself and give it to you? To do anything you ask?
Blanche determined that she would do whatever she could to find out.
1926, Hollywood, California
Hot on the trail, Oliver catches a faint scent.
Mr. Ruhl had told Ted Oliver that Graham Peyton had kept a one-room office above a clothing store in Hollywood, right on Hollywood Boulevard. Ruhl did not immediately remember the exact address, but he thought that it was somewhere close to the intersection of Las Palmas and Hollywood Boulevard. Armed with a snapshot of a smiling Peyton, Oliver planned to hit every establishment within a mile of Hollywood and Las Palmas, slowly working his way up the north side of Hollywood Boulevard, then back down the south side. The very first place he tried was the restaurant in the middle of the block, an upscale place called “Philippe” (not Phil’s, or Philip’s or even Philippe’s, which is how Oliver knew without setting foot in the place that it was upscale), located directly across the street from Peyton’s former office. Philippe had been doing business on this block for some years, and the likelihood was that a man like Peyton, with expensive tastes and the income to indulge them, would have been a frequent customer. Oliver had timed his visit so that he would arrive at about 2:00 in the afternoon, between luncheon and the dinner hour. He asked for the maître d’, since a place called Philippe surely had one, and was not disappointed. A tall man with oiled, center-parted hair and the posture of a Prussian general stalked out of the empty dining room and looked down at him as they stood in the marbled entrance. “I am Maurice,” he intoned. “How may I assist you?”
Maurice’s almost-sneer suggested that the detective was a bit too déclassé for the joint. Oliver suppressed a chuckle at the waiter’s bearing. He introduced himself and explained about the skeleton at the bottom of the palisades.
“I’m trying to trace the movements of a man who I expect used to be a regular diner here. This would have been five years ago. Do you have any waiters or staff who have been working here that long?”
“Yes, sir. In fact, I have been the headwaiter here since the restaurant opened. If the man was a regular diner, it is quite likely that I served him. Do you suspect that this man has something to do with the remains?”
“The police are pretty sure the skeleton is all that’s left of one Graham Peyton, who had an office just across the street, here. I am investigating the final days of Mr. Peyton’s life, and I’m hoping that you can help me out.”
The man’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second and Oliver felt a stab of hope. He removed the snapshot from his pocket and handed it to the waiter. “Do you recognize the name? Is this him?”
Maurice took the photo and gazed at it for a long moment before handing it back. “Yes, I remember Mr. Peyton very well. He’s dead, you say? Well, that is a shame. He was an excellent tipper. I have often wondered what became of him. I rather expected that he had moved back to New York. He was indeed a regular customer here, when he was in town, that is. When do the police believe he died?”
“It was probably in the fall of 1921.”
“I don’t remember the exact dat
e, but I do remember the last time I saw Mr. Peyton, and that may be about the same time. He was a talent agent, I believe. He was usually with a beautiful woman. Not often the same girl twice, mind you. He was with a young lady the last time he was here. There was an altercation. That’s why it sticks in my mind.”
“An altercation? What kind of an altercation? With the young lady?”
“No, not with his luncheon companion. He had a regular table, that one over there, by the French doors. He had come in with a blond lass that day. I waited on them, and from what I was able to observe, they were having a pleasant luncheon. I do believe he was on the verge of offering to represent her when another young woman came into the restaurant under false pretenses and made a scene. It was quite the imbroglio. I had to threaten to have her bodily removed, but she left without further ado and Mr. Peyton and his companion finished their meal.”
“And that was the last time you saw Peyton?”
“Yes. I can’t swear that he didn’t come in again sometime when I wasn’t on duty, but I never saw him again.”
“What can you tell me about the women?”
“The person who created the disturbance was dark-haired. Quite beautiful. Nicely dressed. I’ve not seen her since.”
“Would you recognize her if you saw her again?”
“No, probably not. She was very young, a girl, really. She has more than likely changed out of all recognition after this much time.”
“How about the other girl?”
“Oh, yes, I’d recognize her. She still dines here on occasion, with one gentleman or another. We don’t cater to single women.”
Oliver took a card from his breast pocket and handed it to the waiter. “Next time she comes in, would you give her this and ask her to telephone me?”
“I’ll give her the card, but I can’t guarantee anything.”
“Naturally. Please let her know that anything she can tell me will be kept in the strictest confidence, and may help us find out what happened to Graham Peyton.” He placed a dollar bill on the table. “For your time.”
1920, California, at Last
Such Stuff That Dreams are Made On...
The California Limited pulled into La Grande Station in the middle of the afternoon. Blanche had spent most of the day with her nose pressed against the window in the drawing room of Miss Bolding’s compartment. They had started their morning by traveling through desert so barren that Blanche wondered what God had been thinking when he created it. Some time after they crossed the wide, marshy Colorado River into California, the country began to rise and fall, finally to undulate as they passed through strange, bare, rounded hills that resembled nothing so much as human bodies lying on their sides. Blanche had not formed a favorable opinion of the California landscape, not until they crested the last undulation and the entire San Fernando Valley spread out under them. She could see a glint of silver in the distance. Could it be? Blanche had no idea how far they were from the Pacific, but she was eager for her first glimpse of an ocean. She had never seen a body of water bigger than the Arkansas River.
The train headed downward and the vista narrowed as they approached Los Angeles, slowing and wending through small town after small town, one running into another, all filled with colorful stucco houses sporting red tiled roofs.
When the train slowed so much that Blanche figured she could probably keep up with it at a walk, Mrs. Gilbert stood up from her seat and started pulling cases off of the rack above their heads.
Blanche caught her breath. “Are we there?”
Alma, sitting across from her with Jack Dempsey in her lap, was enjoying Blanche’s excitement. “Almost home, honey. Almost home.”
The train slid into a sprawling red brick railroad station with a huge dome that made it look like a cross between a cathedral and a castle. There was a knock on the compartment door and the conductor poked a head in. “Miss Bolding, if you and your party would like to disembark before the other passengers, please come with me and we will unload your luggage.”
They were met on the platform by the most amazing person Blanche had ever seen. Was he a man, or was she a woman? He stood somewhere between six and six-and-a-half feet tall and had shoulders out to here and arms like tree trunks. But she had a fine-boned face and blond ringlets that fell to her broad shoulders, Vaseline shining on her eyelids and bright red lipstick that perfectly matched the color of the hibiscus flower print on the scarf around her neck. The black bag trousers she/he was wearing could have been worn by either gender, though young men tended to favor them. The person was standing on the platform as the conductor unfolded the steps from the train car and held out a hand to help Alma dismount.
“Oh, Fee,” Alma said, “it’s so good to be home. I am perishing for a Collins.” She waved vaguely at Blanche, who was descending behind her with the dog in her arms. “Oh, and this is Blanche and her pal Jack Dempsey. We picked them up in Arizona. They’ll be staying with us for a while.”
The Fee person gave Blanche a smile of surprising sweetness. “Hello, Blanche. It’s always a treat when Miss Bolding brings home a new friend.” The voice was low and smoky.
Blanche couldn’t have been more surprised if they had been greeted at the station by a talking antimacassar, but she couldn’t have been more delighted, either. The human species was infinitely more varied than she had ever imagined. This boded very well for her new life in California.
The garden outside the entrance to the station was full of plants as exotic as flora from another planet. Huge fan palms and wicked sword-like monstrosities that Alma called agaves. Eye-piercingly bright flowers spilled from pots and hanging baskets. More automobiles were parked on the street in front of the station than Blanche had ever seen gathered in one place, interspersed with the odd horse-drawn carriage advertising tours to places of interest in Southern California. The air was soft, warm, and smelled of vegetation, auto exhaust, engine oil, human beings, fried food, and something salty.
Fee escorted the little party of women to a limousine parked at the curb directly in front of the station. Blanche was aware that they were the center of attention, the crowds of travelers and passersby pointing at them and whispering, but she couldn’t decide whether the greater object of their curiosity was Alma Bolding or their giant, unfathomable chauffeur.
Alma Bolding’s house was located above Hollywood Boulevard in the brand new subdivision of Whitley Heights, which looked something like a Mediterranean village perched on the tiers of a wedding cake. Fee drove them up the winding access road to the very top tier of the hill and parked directly in front of the main entrance to Alma’s Spanish-style mansion. There was no sidewalk, just a stairway that led directly from the street up the hill to the door. The view from the front of the house was a dizzying vista of hills and roofs and treetops. Blanche could look down into the patios and gardens of the houses below. Standing behind her, Mrs. Gilbert said, “That staircase down the hill leads right to Highland Avenue and into the Hollywood Hills.” Her arm extended over Blanche’s shoulder as she pointed into the distance. “That’s Lee Mountain over to the left and those buildings way over there are downtown Los Angeles.”
“And we’re in Hollywood, now?”
“Yes, honey, we’re in Hollywood.”
The interior of Alma’s mansion was as impressive as the outside. Every room in the house looked out over a terraced interior courtyard with a bubbling fountain, palms, and citrus trees. Mrs. Gilbert’s two-room apartment, next to the kitchen, was on the first floor. The whole house was like something out of the Arabian Nights, Blanche thought, or the Alhambra, with arched doors and windows, and colorful tiled floors.
Mrs. Gilbert showed Blanche into her lovely bedroom with a canopied bed and French doors leading out to the balcony. The small room was as far from Alma’s luxurious suite as it could be and still be located on the same floor. Blanche could hardly believe
her luck. She knew she should just keep quiet and enjoy her good fortune while it lasted, but she said, “Mrs. Gilbert, why is Miss Bolding going to so much trouble for me? Does she want something and I’m too stupid to see it? I thought that Graham had my interests at heart, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. What does she expect to gain by helping me? It’s not like I can do anything for her in return.”
Mrs. Gilbert didn’t reply at first. She didn’t even look at Blanche. She stared into space for so long that Blanche feared she had insulted or angered her by questioning Alma’s intentions. “Mrs. G., I didn’t mean to—”
Mrs. Gilbert spoke over her. “I never told you how I came to work for Miss Bolding, did I? I married young. He was a charmer, but he was cruel to me. He was a good provider, and my mother told me that no woman could expect better and I had to do my duty. I was cleaning houses in Los Angeles at the time, and Miss Bolding was one of my ladies. That was before she was as famous as she is now. Anyway, I came to work with a black eye one day, and Miss Bolding nagged at me until I told her what happened. I don’t know why I did. Most rich white folks don’t spare a lot of thought on their servants. But she was so insistent. I figured I’d put her off with some story, but when I opened my mouth, it all came spilling out.
“She blew her top, but not at me. She took me in, gave me a permanent job, and paid for my divorce. She also paid for me to take courses in home management and economics and made me her housekeeper. She was married to her second husband at the time.”
As she listened to Mrs. Gilbert’s story, Blanche couldn’t help but think that even if she had married Graham it wouldn’t have turned out well for her. “What happened to your husband, Mrs. Gilbert? Did you ever see him again?”