The Monet Murders: A Mystery

by Terry Mort

  I was living in one of the bungalows with Myrtle George, whose name had been changed by some genius in studio publicity to Yvonne Adore. I had brought Myrtle to California (after Lily had turned me down) and introduced her to Ethel as soon as we got to Hollywood, and, true to Ethel’s nose for potential, she’d gotten Myrtle a screen test immediately. Ethel recognized a quality in Myrtle that would come through on the screen—a kind of Garbo-esque melancholy that went with Myrtle’s quite stunning physical beauty.

  Myrtle was Croatian and had worked hard on her English, so that she had just enough of an accent to sound interesting. The hint of sadness about her was genuine and had been well developed long before she came to this country as a kind of mail-order bride, and she’d refined it through three years of marriage to the broken-down owner of a diner in the steel-mill town of Youngstown, Ohio, which is where I’d met her. She was also the mistress of my Lily’s husband, who was a lout and a boor, but a rich man who could offer Myrtle at least a little diversion and a glimpse of something better than serving up blue plate specials, even though he would never do anything to improve her lot in life beyond a cheap bracelet or two. In her heart, she knew that as well as I did.

  And so when I came along with a counteroffer to come with me to California, she had no trouble making up her mind. This was just after her pathetic husband had gotten himself run over by a bus. Whether he meant to do it or not didn’t seem to matter in the long run. Myrtle was free to go, and freely she went, after selling the diner to an Italian who was connected and therefore understood the advantages of a legitimate business when it came time to launder money from other sources. I have to confess, if that’s the word, that I’d been involved in this particular deal. It had worked out well, because Myrtle didn’t want much beyond getting out, and the buyers knew a bargain when they saw it. I even got a commission. I knew more than a few of those boys, and they liked me. They liked me because the old guy who ran the town liked me. There’s no sense going into why; suffice it to say that he did, and that gave me a pass with all the local goombahs. Had they known what I was trying to do in partnership with the FBI, it would have been very different. But they didn’t. Not so far, anyway.

  There was a definite upside to the whole experience, though—I have to admit I enjoyed taking Myrtle away from the cartoon character Lily had married. It came close to evening the score. They say revenge is a dish best served cold, but I say it’s like good Scotch—hot or cold, it satisfies. Besides, I could tell myself I was doing Lily a last favor by whisking her husband’s girlfriend away so that he could then pay more attention to his wife. Maybe they could work out their little problems and settle into domestic contentment. Or, as they used to say, felicity. I could tell myself that, but I try never to lie—to myself. I didn’t want to think of Lily thirty years on, a little heavier and chairwoman of the country-club flower committee. But I knew that’s where she would be if I needed to find her. There was comfort, and its opposite, in that thought.

  I was only a little in love with Myrtle, and I think she felt the same way. You couldn’t really tell about her, because she had a natural reserve, a kind of protectiveness that she’d developed long before I met her. Part of it was the tentativeness that many immigrants feel when they come to this country, especially those coming from poor countries where tomorrow was not a sure thing for most folks. Part of it was the constant knowledge of being an alien, someone apart; I suppose that’s why she worked so hard on her accent.

  In any event, for whatever reason, there was always something Myrtle kept hidden, even from me. So even though she was a warm and passionate bed partner, there was no way of knowing whether it was just pure animal spirit or something deeper. The best I could figure was that our relationship wasn’t exactly a business arrangement, and it wasn’t exactly true romance: it was somewhere in between. Maybe we were just friends. The French—who else?—have an expression for this: “amie amoreuse.” A friend/lover. That about summed it up, I guess. In any case, I’d wanted to help her, and introducing her to Ethel had been the fastest way to do that.

  You might think that Ethel would get jealous, and for a moment I worried about that too. But I should have known better. Ethel was only interested in the schtupping, to borrow Manny Stairs’s Yiddish dictionary. She liked me, but that was as far as it went. It wouldn’t have mattered to her if I’d been married and had a mistress to boot. She just wanted her afternoon diversions, and in exchange she was only too happy to help me or mine get along in the business. I admired her for that. It was unselfish of her. And that kind of unselfishness was rare in Hollywood. Or anywhere else.

  So Myrtle got a screen test and they offered her a contract then and there. It was three years at five hundred a week, with bonus possibilities if she hit it big. It was more money than she’d ever dreamed of, and the evening after she signed it I could hear her in the bedroom weeping. I didn’t try to comfort her. I just let her alone. She was getting rid of some heavy things. God most likely knew what they were. I could only guess.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I wasn’t in any particular hurry to find Catherine Moore. I knew when I found her and told her Manny’s tragic story, she’d laugh in my face, while her new husband from St. Paul, who was probably an ex-lumberjack or left tackle, would offer to break my jaw for me, and I’d have to talk him out of it or kick him where it’d do the most good before hustling away with dignity intact, more or less.

  Besides, I was on a daily retainer. I didn’t feel guilty about taking my time. Manny didn’t need the money. I didn’t either, but I liked it. Besides, I wanted to think the situation through. There was no sense running off half-cocked with no plan. In the end, a good plan of action would be more professional and would probably save Manny money. Was I rationalizing? Could be.

  By the time I’d finished my meeting with Manny, I was ready to go back to the Garden of Allah. It was cocktail hour and the starlets were just starting to think about going for a swim. I was still feeling a little glow from Manny’s bourbon, and, of course, that’s precisely the condition you’re in when you’re sure another drink is a good idea.

  When I got back to my bungalow at the Garden, I was surprised to see that Myrtle was packing her suitcase. Her eyes were red and a little swollen and her nose was running. Even so, she was stunning. She was wearing shorts and a thin top with nothing underneath. That was obvious.

  “Hi, honey. Was it something I said?”

  She came over and put her arms around me. The smell of her perfume was faint but arousing. So was the feel of her body. She could have been an athlete—and in some ways, she was.

  “Oh, Riley. I am so sad.”

  “I figured that when I noticed you were crying. You forget, I’m a detective. Or at least my alter ego is.”

  “Don’t make a joke. It’s true. You see, the studio people came to me today and said my contract has a morals clause and that living with you like this was not a good thing.”

  “I think it’s a good thing.”

  “I do too.” She snuffled on my shoulder. “But. . . .”

  Well, I wasn’t surprised. Living in sin, as some people call it, was okay for the anonymous Myrtle George, but not for Yvonne Adore, a potential star. The studio was going to remake her into some kind of mystery woman from a faraway country—which was not much of a stretch, really—but that image would be incompatible with cohabiting at the Garden of Allah with a private detective going by the name of Bruno Feldspar. The studio boys would concoct some improbable story about her—that she was a Greek virgin who had just left the convent or something along those lines; but if she was still living with me, the tabloids would soon sniff out the truth and go into exposé mode, and everyone would get the horselaugh, which, as Manny Stairs explained, was career cyanide. Some people say there’s no such thing as bad publicity, but they’re wrong. Consider Fatty Arbuckle as Exhibit A.

  Then, once the studio had established her exotic story in the public’s mind, they would arr
ange a romance for her with one of their other contract stars in order to boost the publicity for both of them. It was a well-oiled process. It wouldn’t be a real romance and the guy could in all probability be a beautiful pansy, so that the story would do double duty, providing cover for the pansy and publicity for them both. The two of them would look good together on the covers of the magazines. Funny thing was, though, Myrtle’s actual story was a lot more interesting than anything the studio flacks would ever dream up. But they wouldn’t see it that way. For the time being, her virginity had to be restored.

  “What can I do?” she asked tearfully.

  “Well, for starters you can stop crying and wipe your nose. I understand why they’re doing this, and you—we—have no choice. One of the downsides of signing a fat contract is that you’re expected to live up to the terms. And besides, they’re not sending you to Mongolia.”

  “No. Mabilu, I think they said it was. There is a house there.”

  “That’s probably more likely to be ‘Malibu.’ And it’s just a few miles up the coast. There’s no reason why we can’t still see each other. I do have a car, you know.” It was a two-toned cream-and-tan Packard convertible that was my proverbial pride and joy. The leather seats could have come from the Bel Air club. “If anyone gets wind of the fact that we’re meeting now and then, the publicity department could put out the word that I’m a private detective working for you on some mysterious case. That’d be a fireproof story, since anyone checking on it would run into actual facts—something most of the tabloids don’t know what to do with. After all, I really am a private detective.”

  “Yes. Your hat gives you away.”

  “To say nothing of the trench coat when it rains. All part of the image. People expect it. And remember, private detectives are honor-bound to keep their assignments confidential. So my hanging around may actually suit the fairy tale the studio boys are concocting for you.”

  “They said I’m supposed to be a White Russian princess.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “I don’t like the Russians. They are hairy.”

  “Well, they’re fashionable these days, although the Whites less so than the Reds. Sort of like wine. But the story has to play in Middle America, and most of those good people have more sense than to identify with the bolshies.”

  “But I don’t know Russian.”

  “Don’t worry. Half the people out here don’t know English, let alone a foreign language. The whole point is to make you seem mysterious; so the less you say about your made-up past, the better. Let the studio hacks speak for you. They’ll know much more about your biography than you will. If anyone asks you about yourself, just look sad and say ‘I’d rather not talk about it.’ Or ‘I vant to forget.’”

  She smiled at the absurdity of it all but then grew thoughtful again. She kissed me in a very tender way. She had the softest lips.

  “But what about us?” she asked.

  That touched me and surprised me. She understood, as I did, that things would probably never again be quite the same between us. It was the end of a chapter, and neither of us could predict what the next one would bring. Or even if there would be a next one. It made me sad, which surprised me, so naturally I replied with a joke.

  “Well, we’ll always have the Garden of Allah.”

  “You’re making fun again.”

  “Maybe a little. But you know I have always been sort of half in love with you, and I think you feel pretty much the same. No?”

  I hoped like hell right then that she didn’t disagree. Otherwise, it was the two of us forever. I’d never be able to resist her if she said no, that in fact she was completely in love with me, especially now that she was on the verge of leaving, wearing no underwear.

  “Just half in love?” I asked, just to frame the issue again.

  “Yes. I think so.” She smiled. She had one eyetooth that was slightly crooked; it was her only imperfection, and I liked it. But the studio would no doubt have it straightened. They had an adolescent concept of female beauty.

  “So if we see each other half the time, we’ll be in love all those half hours, or half days. Does that make sense?” Of course it didn’t, but I thought it might fly.

  “Maybe.”

  “And who knows, maybe someday soon you’ll meet the man of your dreams—someone you’re not just half, but completely in love with—and you’ll live happily ever after.”

  “Would you come to the wedding?”

  I began to think we had reached safe ground when she made this joke. She didn’t make them often.

  “Yes, but don’t expect an expensive gift. I only get twenty-five dollars a day, plus expenses.”

  She looked at me seductively. She smoldered better than Garbo, which no doubt the screen test had revealed. Take my word, she could really smolder.

  “How do you know you’re not the man of my dreams? Maybe I’m more than half in love.”

  “I doubt it. I may be the man of your daydreams, but not the important kind. They come at night.” For a moment I wished I was wrong about that, but I didn’t think I was. I knew she was just feeling vulnerable. We had come west together, and now she was turning herself over to some corporation with its publicity-making machine, and she was nervous. Anyone with any sense would be; her life was spinning out of her control. Hell, she had just lost her own biography. At that moment, I think I could have talked her out of the whole deal, told her to give the studio the back of her hand and come with me . . . somewhere. But it wouldn’t have been right. She was too beautiful, and she deserved a chance. There was a real possibility that she could make it. She had that proverbial “something.”

  Besides, I wasn’t going anywhere. I’d keep an eye on her. If someone did her wrong, they’d have to answer for it. I made that pact with myself as I held her.

  “I owe you so much,” she said, tearing up again. She had the most gorgeous blue eyes, almost lavender.

  “Get me a ticket to your first premiere, and we’ll call it square. I’ll rent a tuxedo. And there are other ways. As I said, I know the way to Malibu, and gas is cheap. How soon do you have to go?”

  “The studio is sending a car. They should be here in an hour.”

  It was my turn to render a seductive look. Now and then I can get one right. “That gives us just enough time.”

  For the first few minutes after Myrtle left, I have to admit I was a little depressed. The bed seemed empty even though I was still in it. The scent of her perfume, most of it natural, was lingering on the pillow and sheets where moments ago we had said a temporary good-bye. It was depressing to think that it might not have been just temporary. Things seemed to spiral out of control in life. What’s the second law of thermodynamics? Things move from stasis to chaos, or something like that. Lives did that too, sometimes. And wouldn’t my high-school science teacher be proud of me for remembering that. He was an odd character, with only two neckties and one shiny suit. There’d been an acid burn in one of the ties, but he still wore it. Times had been tough then, just like now. You didn’t give up on a tie just because it had a hole in it.

  I got up finally, put on my bathing suit, and poured myself the long-delayed drink and drank it. Maybe the starlets were swimming by now. As anyone who has thought about it knows, the only antidotes to booze and women are booze and women. I went out to the pool to see what was happening.

  They said the pool was shaped like the Black Sea because when Alla built it, she had wanted to be reminded of her homeland, which was somewhere in the Crimea. Maybe so. But it was certainly big enough. There were the usual collections of stunning young women in scanty bathing suits holding frosted glasses of something and the usual group of writers, most of them overweight and unfit. They, too, were holding frosted glasses. The sun was just about to go down, so the air was cool and the palm trees were not troubled by any breeze. I threw my towel on one of the pool chairs and dived into the water. It felt wonderful, cool and cleansing—not that I neede
d cleansing after being with Myrtle; she was cleansing of a higher sort.

  I swam underwater across the pool toward a group of writers who were just beginning to have trouble balancing on two feet. I assumed there would be some gin and tonic available close by, and I was right. I had gotten to know quite a few of the writers by now, and, as I pulled myself out of the pool on the far side, they welcomed me like a fraternity brother. They all knew I was a detective, not a writer, so I was no threat to them; and they did not expect any witty ripostes from me that they’d have to top, so they could relax. Besides, I might potentially be a source of good stories. One or two might have been slightly worried that I might be on their case. But my boyish charm more or less disarmed even the ones who had something to hide.

  “Bruno Feldspar, ace detective, rises from the sea like Venus on a clamshell,” said one of them.

  “Venus? What are you suggesting?”

  “Nothing, my boy. Nothing at all. Come and have a drink.” He was a pudgy character with a pencil moustache and thinning hair that he slicked back. He had a receding double chin that went perfectly with a potbelly that had taken years of self-indulgence to create. He was considered the presiding wit of the place. Like most of these characters he had come here from New York, so he had an air of guilt mixed with tired yet amused self-loathing. He was here for the money and made no bones about it; but he was, like the rest of them, fundamentally uncomfortable and out of place, and it showed in his manner and expression. He wanted to be back in Manhattan, exchanging witticisms with people like himself, with everyone seated around a round lunch table and everyone understanding the references and jokes. In Hollywood, if you happened to mention Ulysses, people would think you were talking about a proposed sword-and-sandal epic starring Douglas Fairbanks, with Mary Pickford playing Ulysses’s girlfriend Lola and Wallace Beery as Ulysses’s sidekick Fuzzy.