The Wrong Girl

by Donis Casey

  Oliver went through the sunroom, where a lot of canoodling was going on, and out the French doors to the pool area. The trees and cabanas were hung with paper lanterns, giving the scene a dreamlike quality. He spent a lot of time walking around the property, hoping that none of the drunken revelers gathered around the pool ended up at the bottom of the deep end. No one was sober enough to notice.

  He had been wandering around for almost an hour, inside and out, checking out the guests, before it dawned on him that he hadn’t struck up a conversation with anyone. He went back into the living room and had the bartender fix him a drink.

  “She likes to stay in control of herself.”

  Oliver started when Alma Bolding spoke. He had not heard her come up behind him. Of course, he could barely hear himself think over the frenetic noise the jazz band was pounding out.

  “What?”

  Alma was clad in an outlandishly elaborate Queen Elizabeth costume, complete with pearl-encrusted red wig and stark white makeup. She smelled like a perfumed distillery and was unsteady on her feet. “Bianca. You’ve been looking for her. She ain’t staggering around with the rest of us drunks. Bianca likes to stay in control.”

  “I got that impression when I talked to her the other day,” Oliver said.

  “I know you want to question her. Don’t think you’re going to be able to trip her up, young fellow. She’s too smart for that. She knows how to protect herself. She knows how to stay out of trouble and knows everybody’s dirty little secrets just for insurance.”

  “How did you come to be such good friends with Miss LaBelle?” The question had nothing to do with his purpose for being there. He knew he shouldn’t ask, but he couldn’t help himself. A veteran actress could be jealous of beautiful up-and-comers, and it was a rare thing that older actors actually promoted and mentored someone who could replace them in the fickle hearts of the fans. Alma Bolding was well known in the business for being difficult. Bianca LaBelle was a movie star in her own right. She certainly did not have to put up with Alma’s eccentricities if she didn’t want to.

  Alma dodged the question. “It’s a long story.”

  “Most people don’t help their stunt doubles become stars.”

  Alma shot him an ironic look and finished his thought for him. “Especially harridans such as myself, you mean. Why should I care? I don’t have to act anymore. I’m loaded.”

  “And now so is she, thanks to you.”

  “Oh, not just me, believe me. The girl has what it takes.” Alma hesitated, then said, “I wouldn’t give a tiny fly’s fart for most of the brainless sluts who think they want to get into the movies. But Bianca…after all that she’s been through, after all the things that the usual thugs and shits and bottom-feeders our business has to offer have done to her… Well, I keep trying to educate her, but in spite of it all, the basic decency still hasn’t been beaten, screwed, or cheated out of her. Not yet.” Alma’s smile managed to convey affection and bitterness at once.

  “I’m not looking to trip anybody up, Miss Bolding. Actually, it’s you I’d like to talk to.”

  Alma’s painted eyebrows shot skyward. “Me? I don’t know nothing, sonny, and I wouldn’t tell you if I did. Why do you care what happened to that poisonous toad, anyway? Why, I think that if some citizen had walked up to him on Rodeo Drive in the middle of the afternoon and shot him in the head, the district attorney would have given a medal to the guy who pulled the trigger.”

  That made Oliver laugh. “I agree with you, there.”

  “Then what’s the point?”

  Oliver studied the actress, trying to decide the best way to proceed. She was three sheets to the wind, probably no inhibitions at all. Anything she said to him right now would be either the unvarnished truth, a lie, or a damned lie. Either way, tomorrow she probably wouldn’t remember talking to him at all. “How about it, Miss Bolding? Would you be willing to find a secluded corner right now and tell me how you knew Graham Peyton?”

  She emitted a high-pitched sound that was halfway between a laugh and a shriek. “Up yours three ways from Sunday, young man.”

  Oliver tried not to smile. Alma was awful, and he couldn’t help but like her. He’d try her again when she could see straight. “So where is Bianca?”

  Alma gestured toward the hall with her martini glass, slopping gin on the rug. “She’s in the kitchen.”

  ~Bianca had never been taught how to charm,

  but she did wonders for an amateur.~

  Oliver walked through the house, heading in the direction Alma had indicated. He passed through the library room where Bianca had asked him to keep her informed, down another long hall with walls of blond brick, a couple of closed doors on one side and on the other, floor-to-ceiling windows looking out onto a citrus orchard. Must be nice to be rolling in moola.

  Bianca had unusual taste in decor, he thought—spare, bold lines, simple white and chrome furniture accented with splashes of bright color. She liked art. Statuary and small objets were scatted about on table tops and shelves, in corners, and even hanging from the ceiling. The walls were mostly bare except for the black, white, and gold light sconces, but every once in a while he would come across a painting, usually something large and in an odd style that was unfamiliar to him. A painting ought to look like something, in his opinion. But then what did he know about art?

  He opened one of the wood-and-metal double doors at end of the hall, into a formal dining room dominated by an oval mahogany table with an eye-catching inlaid fan pattern made of ebony. A door in one corner of the large room was unassuming enough that Oliver figured its purpose was to let waiters slip discreetly in and out of the kitchen while serving dinner to the glitterati.

  He pushed open the restaurant-style door and found himself in a kitchen that was bigger than his entire apartment. He was too busy gawking at the shiny chrome fixtures to notice that the maid who had served him sandwiches on his first visit was stalking toward him, until she said, “Sir, you can’t be in here. Let me escort you back to the party.”

  “It’s all right, Norah. Let him come in. You can go. We’ll be fine.” Bianca was sitting on a stool at a marble-topped kitchen island. She was wearing a black velvet sheath dress dripping with jet-beaded fringe. The front of the dress was basically nonexistent, cut so low that one false move would leave Bianca with no secrets. A sleek man with dark hair and eyes was sitting next to her. Norah stood aside, looking doubtful.

  Bianca put a hand on her companion’s shoulder. “Hello, Oliver. I’m glad you could make it. This is my friend Rudy. We were just taking a little break from the merriment. Rudy, this is Ted Oliver. He’s handling some business for me.”

  The dark man stood up, all old world elegance and grace, and said, “Pleased to meet you.” He had a thick Italian accent.

  Oliver held out a hand while trying not to swallow his tongue. “Likewise, Mr. Valentino.” Oliver’s face felt like it was on fire. He figured he must look like a fireplug, but neither Valentino nor LaBelle seemed to notice.

  “Rudy, would you excuse us for a moment? Mr. Oliver and I have things to discuss.”

  “Of course, cara. I must return to the party before Pola wonders where I’ve gone. I feel much better now, grazie. Your drink you make me is a big help.”

  Rudolph Valentino, the most beloved romantic star in all the wide world, cast Oliver a narrow look as he left. Bianca gestured toward his vacated stool and bade Oliver have a seat. “Rudy doesn’t mean anything by that squint, Mr. Oliver. He’s blind as a bat. I’m worried about him, though. He’s been having terrible stomach problems for a while.”

  “You run in rarified company, Miss LaBelle.” Oliver hoisted himself onto the seat. “But then you’re pretty rarified yourself.”

  “Yes, well, fame isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, Mr. Oliver. Not when you have to live in a fortress to keep from being loved to death.”
Her inscrutable smile appeared and was gone. “Not that I’m complaining. It’s nice to have enough money to do what needs to be done. Speaking of doing what needs to be done, I assume you have garnered some information that you think will interest me?”

  He filled her in on his investigation, including Miranda’s tale of the screaming teenager who confronted Peyton at Philippe. He carefully watched Bianca’s face when he told her about the woman who saw Alma at Peyton’s bungalow shortly before he disappeared, but her expression gave nothing away.

  All she said was, “Have you asked Alma about that?”

  “I talked to her for a minute just before I came to find you. She’s not in any condition to answer questions right now.”

  Bianca nodded, unsurprised. “I don’t know what she was doing there, but I can guess. You know that Graham supplied drugs to some of the studios. You’ve heard of the Count?”

  “I’ve heard he hollows out peanut shells and fills them with cocaine, then sells bags of ‘peanuts’ to actors on the set.”

  She inclined her jet-and-feather-adorned head in assent. “Alma has had her battles with that demon in the past. Alma was one of the Count’s good customers, but she always preferred to make her purchases wholesale rather than retail. Graham was a wholesale supplier. She was probably going straight to the source. You can question her all you want, but drunk or sober, I doubt if she’ll remember much about that time.” Her small smile reappeared. “You don’t look like you’re buying my theory, Oliver. Have you begun to form one of your own?”

  “I think you know a lot more about the death of Graham Peyton than you’re letting on, Miss LaBelle, and I think it may have something to do with Alma Bolding. Why else would you want to pay me money to keep informed about my investigation?”

  The statement seemed to startle her. “You think she bumped him off?”

  “Maybe. Or she may know who did. I do think you’re the kind of girl who would go to a lot of trouble to protect someone you care about. Somebody like Alma, say.”

  Her expression said that she didn’t care for the implication. Bianca pondered the white marble floor for some time. When she lifted her head to look at him, Oliver was startled anew by her gold-flecked green eyes. “You’ve been straight with me, Oliver, so I’ll be straight with you. The truth is that I did come to California because of Graham Peyton—indirectly, that is. I was fifteen, bored, and susceptible to his guff. He persuaded me to run away with him. He didn’t have to persuade very hard, I admit.”

  She paused, looking wistful. “You can’t retrieve a deed long done or a time gone. Do you know what it is to long for something so badly that it feels like your heart is being pulled right out of your body? That’s the way I felt.”

  Oliver was oddly disturbed by her story. Suddenly he didn’t want her to go on, to make herself so vulnerable. He held up a hand to silence her. “Miss LaBelle…”

  But she ignored the gesture. “It took me a long time to realize that what I longed for was not Graham Peyton. It was adventure. And do you know, I still long for adventure? Adventure is my one true love, I think.” She straightened and shook off her thoughtful mood. “Fortunately, I met Alma and Tom Mix in Arizona and they rescued me before I could end up working in one of K.D. Dix’s brothels. I was lucky to escape. I was aware of Graham’s disappearance a few years ago. Like everyone else, I expected that he met a bad end, and I was frankly relieved that he was gone. I’ve been quite successful since I’ve been in Hollywood, Mr. Oliver, and I have lived in some anxiety that my past association with that…person would be discovered and end up splashed all over the tabloids. If you were able to find the woman who recognized me from the altercation at the restaurant, it’s just a matter of time before one of the tabloids finds her, too.”

  “And as for Alma, if somebody saw her at Graham’s bungalow, I wouldn’t be surprised if she was there to give him a piece of her mind. Trying to protect me somehow. She knew that Graham and I had a history and she was determined that he leave me alone. But I’ll bet everything I own or ever will own that Alma Bolding never killed anybody. So do not bring up her name to K.D. Dix. I’ll pay you any amount of money you want. Dix will jump to conclusions and I don’t want Alma hurt.”

  “Miss LaBelle, I’d never make idle accusations about anyone, especially to a mobster.”

  “Promise me, Oliver. Dix is evil, and Alma is weak.”

  “Miss LaBelle…”

  She spoke over him. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, call me Bianca. All this Miss LaBelle stuff is getting on my nerves. As for why I’m interested in finding out what happened to Graham Peyton, well, that’s very personal, Oliver. But I promise that it isn’t because I am involved in any of his criminal enterprises, or ever have been, or know anyone who has.”

  Oliver had no reason to take her word for it, but he was relieved nonetheless. If she really had fallen pregnant by Peyton, like Miranda said, he could understand her desire to keep it quiet. He said, “Well, if it makes you feel any better, I don’t think anybody is going to find out for sure what happened to Graham Peyton. I think the simplest answer is the most likely. He got caught skimming money from the wrong people and ended up tossed over a cliff. I think the money is long gone and if there ever was a second ledger, the book got burned up in his landlady’s incinerator five years ago. Dix is wasting his money trying to find out what happened to that ledger. If it hasn’t turned up after five years, it’s not going to turn up now.”

  “I’m inclined to agree with you, Oliver. I hope your client does, too. K.D. Dix is not somebody you want to cross.”

  “So everyone keeps telling me.” He stood up. “Well, I’d better let you get back to your guests. Oh, and by the way, I caught a showing of Zanzibar Gold this afternoon.”

  One sculpted eyebrow rose. “Indeed? Are you a fan of the Dangereuse flicks? What did you think?”

  “It was quite a romp. I was impressed.”

  She seemed pleased. “I learned how to do stunts and not kill myself from my sensei, Mr. Hirayasu. It takes a lot of work to make all that climbing and fighting and falling down look easy. Besides, I enjoy knowing that I could knock you on your ass if I wanted to.”

  Oliver grinned. “I especially liked the part where you jumped on top of the caboose.”

  Bianca laughed. Her Mona Lisa smile broke open like the sun breaking through clouds, into a gleaming, extravagant, tooth-filled grin that transformed not just her face but her whole being. She was transcendent, and Oliver nearly fell off his stool. He almost didn’t hear her when she said, “That was an accident. I was supposed to land on my feet and walk across the top of the car. I was lucky I didn’t break my neck. It looked swell on film, though.”

  Oliver tried to make his feet move in a straight line as he walked through the party and out the front door into the night. This was trouble. He was lightheaded and could hardly breathe. He had never been thunderstruck in his life, but this had to be what it was like. Damn it damn it damn it. What was he going to do now?

  He had a strong feeling that both Bianca LaBelle and Alma Bolding knew something about Graham Peyton’s death. But unless the situation changed, he would never hear the whole story from them. Bianca LaBelle was box office gold, and as long as she was a top moneymaker, the studio bigwigs weren’t going to let an inconvenient incident like murder interfere with her. What if Bianca LaBelle really was protecting Alma Bolding? What if, God forbid, Bianca herself was involved in shilling drugs or hooch or whores or murder? Could anyone who looked like that be evil? Would it matter? Who would he tell if she was? Certainly not K.D. Dix.

  In the short time he had been here in paradise he had learned that Southern California law enforcement was not the stellar institution one would hope. He had been trying to stay out of the mud, but it was hard. He didn’t know how much longer he was going to be able to last. If Bianca was dirty, he was going to have to choose between her and his sou
l. He had the sinking fear that when the time came, he would make the wrong choice.

  * * *

  Bianca LaBelle watched Oliver leave her kitchen, but she was in no hurry to return to the party. She got up from her seat at the counter, retrieved a bottle of milk from the refrigerator, and poured herself a glass. Lies came easy to her these days. Too bad they were necessary. Still, things were going her way. The instant that Oliver had fallen for her, she knew it. She always did.

  1921, Hollywood, California

  While Blanche was planning another late night heist at Graham Peyton’s house, Alma Bolding was making love to John Barrymore in front of a crew of dozens.

  Mrs. Gilbert sat in her usual unobtrusive spot in a corner of the cavernous studio on Santa Monica Boulevard, well behind the cameras, but close enough that she could see everything. As Alma’s scene played out, Mrs. Gilbert thought about Blanche’s secretive trips into Los Angeles and made plans to confront the little sneak as soon as she got home. She would have done it this morning if Alma hadn’t insisted that she come to the location with her today. Alma liked to hear Mrs. Gilbert’s opinion of how things had gone. She especially liked the fact that Mrs. Gilbert’s opinion was always complimentary.

  After the director called cut, Alma wended her way around the Klieg lights and cables, only knocking over a few things with her antebellum hoopskirt, and gingerly sat down on a hoop-friendly stool next to Mrs. Gilbert’s chair.

  “I swear that if that knucklehead Barrymore treads on my train one more time I’m going to klop his kop.”

  Mrs. Gilbert smiled. Alma always opened with a complaint. “You move so gracefully in that monstrosity of a dress. Besides, I thought you two really had some heat between you in that last scene.”