by Mary Miley
“You broke in?”
“Well, I didn’t actually break anything…”
“I can’t believe the cops left the house unlocked!”
“They didn’t. They just left the second-story windows open, and I climbed up a tree next to a rear window.”
“There were no guards?” he asked incredulously.
“One, but he stayed out front.”
“Jesus Christ! You did that for Lot— No, of course not. You did it for Doug and Mary.” He was quiet for a while and I waited. Suddenly he chuckled. “Sure would be fun to let the police chief know about this and watch a couple detectives twist in the wind, but…” He sighed. “Hell, for all you know, the chief’s in on it, too, and they’d cover it up. You’d get worse than they would. In fact, you’d be in serious danger, knowing what you know. Nope, there’s nothing you can do but keep your mouth shut.”
Except find the killer myself. I was the only one who knew where to look.
“There’s more. On Sunday afternoon, outside Esther’s apartment, the police asked bystanders if they saw anything suspicious during the night. One old man said he saw a stranger with a droopy mouth come out of the building around six, when he let his dog out. The cops weren’t interested since Esther was killed in the middle of the night, not in the morning, and murderers don’t typically hang around after killing someone. But it struck me as odd that no one in the crowd commented on the old man’s remark.” David looked puzzled, so I explained. “There were quite a few people gathered around, maybe three dozen, and when the old man described a stranger with a droopy mouth, no one said, ‘Oh, that’s just Hank,’ or anything like that. It seems to me that a man with a droopy mouth is pretty memorable, and that someone living on the block would have known if a man with a droopy mouth lived around there and would have spoken up. But no one did.”
“So the stranger with the droopy mouth was the killer?”
“I have reason to believe he did stay at Esther’s after he killed her. And I think he took the early Chicagoan out of Los Angeles on Sunday morning.”
“So he wasn’t from these parts. But that’s a long ride, almost three days. The train must make dozens of stops. Too bad you don’t know where he got off.”
“But I do know. I have a vaudeville friend playing Chicago, and I sent her a telegram asking her to meet that train when it arrived yesterday evening, and she saw a man with a droopy mouth get off.”
He whistled again. “Have you told this to anyone?”
“I’m not sure who to tell, considering which detectives are handling the investigation. I don’t know how high the corruption goes. Besides, it only recently fell into place, and there’s still a lot I don’t know.”
“Such as, if that’s the killer and he left town on Sunday morning, who killed Lorna McCall on Sunday afternoon and poisoned Paul Corrigan and Faye Gordon on Tuesday?”
“I’m not sure about that. Not yet. But it definitely wasn’t the hired killer from Chicago. Even forgetting everything I’ve told you, think about the odds of a stranger getting through Paramount’s gate unnoticed. If one did somehow talk his way past the guard, he’d have been logged in and remembered.”
“So there are two murderers?”
“Maybe even three. There are really no similarities between the ways these people died. Nothing links them except Heilmann’s party.”
David left the cemetery with the Pickfords so I rejoined Myrna, who had taken refuge from the sun under a large oak tree where she was exchanging opinions on the murders with her Montana friend, Gary Cooper.
“… that’s when Jessie and I helped the police draw up their list of party guests,” she was saying as I approached. Gary acknowledged me with a half-smile that dimpled one cheek as Myrna continued talking. “Have they questioned you yet?”
“Hello, Jessie.” His voice was deep and rich. “Yes, Myrna, I had a visit from our boys in blue, asking me what time I left and who else was with me.”
“We left early,” Myrna said proudly, as if she and I had possessed the foresight to exit the stage before the final, deadly act.
“I’m afraid I stayed almost to the end. I didn’t realize it at the time, but now I think I probably saw the murderer. I’m probably the only person still alive who did.”
“What!” I exclaimed too loudly.
Coop would not be rushed. He looked around to make sure no one was within listening distance and nodded deliberately, relishing the story. “I was among a group of ten or so who left some time before two. That’s what I told the police anyway. And it’s true, as far as it goes. The others will vouch for it. But once we got near Hollywood Boulevard, everyone split up, a few to this or that club, a few home. I was trying to decide which way to go when I realized my hat didn’t fit.”
“You had the wrong hat?” Myrna asked.
“I should have noticed when that butler handed it to me, but, well, I’d had a bit to drink and wasn’t paying attention. But I realized right there on the street corner that my hat was too big, practically on my ears.”
“No one else noticed?”
“Let’s just say they all had a little too much to drink, too. Anyway, I turned around and walked back to Heilmann’s, hoping I could swap for the right hat. It was borrowed and I’d have to buy my friend a new one if I couldn’t return his. But when I got to Heilmann’s, the party was over. I’m a little fuzzy on the details, but I remember seeing a man leave by the front door.”
“The killer?” asked Myrna.
“I think so.”
“How do you know?”
“Well, he sure as thunderation wasn’t a guest. He wasn’t wearing a dinner jacket.”
“What did he look like?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
“From where I was standing by that fish fountain, I couldn’t make out any details. All I saw was a man wearing a business suit. He moved fast around to the back of the house where a truck was pulling out, and he jumped in a car and took off after the truck. I figured him for one of the staff, and when I noticed how quiet the house was, I realized the party was over and I wasn’t going to swap hats then. So I headed home.”
“Did you tell this to the police?”
“Nope. And I don’t plan to. You know what they’ll think.”
I certainly did. If the police knew he was the last person to leave the party, he’d be their prime suspect.
Gary continued. “It’s not like I’m holding back some important clue that would help solve Heilmann’s murder. I wouldn’t do that. But I can’t describe the man.”
Myrna reassured him that he’d done no harm to the investigation, then her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my gosh! Did the killer see you? He might think you could identify him and you’d be in danger, too!”
“I thought about that, but no, I don’t think he knew I was there. It was too dark and the fountain was too far from the house.”
“I don’t think the killer is anywhere near Hollywood at this moment,” I said. “There’s good evidence that he left the state some time ago.”
What Gary Cooper had seen contributed no new information, but it did confirm my theory about the killer following the Cisneros truck to Esther’s apartment building. Evidently Droopy Mouth had parked behind Heilmann’s near the service road while he waited for the guests to leave. No doubt he’d watched the Cisneros brothers packing up and assumed all the caterers were there by the truck, ready to leave. He hadn’t counted on Esther still being in the house. I sighed. It had been such a close call. If only Esther had walked out of the house one minute earlier, she wouldn’t have been in a position to see him as he came in the front door and she would be alive today. The futility of it made me want to cry.
23
The cold clank of steel on steel greeted me as I approached Douglas Fairbanks’s private gymnasium, located in the main building alongside his saltwater plunge pool, dressing room, and office. Inside the gym, he was practicing with his fencing master, Henry Uyttenhove, a Belgian imp
ort I had heard about but never met. An assistant pointed me to a wooden bench against the wall and, as the two men lunged, parried, attacked, and retreated, I settled down to wait for the lesson to end.
Douglas had no intention of waiting. “Ah, Jessie. At last,” he said, without taking his eyes off his opponent for one second. “How was the funeral?”
“Heavy on reporters, light on mourners.”
“Ha!” With his left hand raised behind him and his right leg leading, he executed three sharp steps forward and followed them with a thrust that lifted his teacher’s foil out of his hand and sent it sailing high above them both. With an ease that comes only from practice, he caught its handle with his own blade and slung it back to Uyttenhove with an exaggerated bow. It was only then that I realized this wasn’t a lesson—it was a rehearsal for a particular fight scene. He was practicing the same way I would have practiced a vaudeville dance routine, over and over, until the intricate steps could be executed in one’s sleep. Only then could the spontaneity be added. I watched in amazement as the two men worked the routine again, forgetting for a moment why I had come.
“Again,” he said, and they resumed their en garde positions. “Go ahead with the details, Jessie.”
“Faye Gordon’s doctor was there,” I said, jerking my attention back to the reason I was there. “He said she would probably be released in a day or two. Fortunately she hadn’t swallowed enough of the poisoned coffee to kill her.”
“I’m sure Mary was pleased to hear that. She’s known Faye for years.” He ducked a high sweeping stroke and leaped over the low one that followed, spun around, and tossed his sword from one hand to the other. Evidently it wasn’t up to snuff. “Again,” he said to Uyttenhove, and they repeated the dance. And to me, “Anything more?”
It wasn’t the time to tell him of my other suspicions. “Only … well, I was wondering about Lorna McCall. I’ve asked around and no one seems to know much about her.”
“She was a WAMPAS Baby Star.”
“And she had some good parts. But that’s all anyone knows about her. She doesn’t seem to have had any family. A friend in the police department said her body is still in the morgue, unclaimed.”
“I can hear an idea in your head, Jessie.” He lunged, his back leg straight behind him as he leaned into the attack. Uyttenhove parried and gave ground.
“I just find it odd that Lorna’s death didn’t cause anyone to step forward. I wonder about her. Was she really killed as a result of that party, or was there something else?”
“Like a jealous lover, you mean? Hmm. It’s possible. As for her family, they probably don’t know about her death yet. Although it’s been widely reported, Lorna McCall is undoubtedly a stage name.”
“But the photograph in the newspapers—”
“Doesn’t necessarily resemble some young girl from some small town in some Midwestern state several years ago.”
I had to admit he was right. I thought a bit as the two men clashed. Gus Frankel popped into my mind. That gave me an idea. “I thought I might go over to Lorna’s apartment and ask a few questions.”
At that, he came to a complete stop and looked sternly at me, pointing with his foil for emphasis. “Listen here, young lady. Whoever killed Lorna McCall isn’t going to take kindly to you rummaging around in her life, looking for clues. You be careful about who you talk to and what you say. And don’t use your real name.”
Douglas Fairbanks wasn’t quite old enough to be my father, but his fatherly concern sure felt good.
24
Funeral clothes wouldn’t do for the part I was about to play, so I returned home to change into my traveling suit, a sleek blue outfit with a matching hat and chamois gloves that were left over from the heiress gig last year, and then set out to find Lorna McCall’s apartment. The newspapers had reported the address, and it wasn’t but a mile from where I lived, so I walked out my front door—and smack into David Carr coming up the steps.
“What are you doing here?”
“I ran into Doug, who mentioned you were off investigating something, and I didn’t have anything to do this afternoon so I—”
“I don’t need a nursemaid, David.”
“Don’t get your back up, Miss Priss. Doug didn’t suggest anything of the kind. I just thought you might like company. I’m a swell guy to have around. And I make a fine chauffeur.”
“I was planning to walk.”
He fell in step beside me as I reached the sidewalk. “Good idea. I could use some exercise. Where are we headed?”
I gave in without further struggle. It would be nice to have the company as long as he didn’t get in the way, and I was quite sure David, of all people, could handle himself in less-than-honest circumstances. And another set of eyes wouldn’t hurt.
“I’m going to visit Lorna McCall’s apartment.”
“You don’t look dressed for a break-in.”
“This time I’m not going in through a rear window. I plan to talk my way in.”
“What are you looking for?”
“I’m not sure. I’m hoping to learn something—anything—about her.”
“She was a WAMPAS Baby Star.”
I rolled my eyes. “If I hear that one more time, I’ll scream. The problem is, no one has much else to say about her.”
“Well, she was known to be … um … free with her favors … not that I would know anything about that.”
“I’ve heard that, too. But she seems to have no past. No family. No hometown.”
“She must have had friends.”
“‘Hollywood friends,’ as Myrna calls them. The police talked with several young actresses who palled around in Lorna’s set and a few of the men she’d known, but none of them recollected hearing her mention a hometown or any family. Seemed like she was born in Hollywood a couple years ago.”
“And what would her past tell you, if you could discover it?”
“Why someone wanted to kill her. Whether her death was linked to the others. Or maybe nothing at all.”
“What’s the address?”
I told him.
“Good, we have plenty of time to discuss your game.”
“I’m Lorna’s older sister from Topeka. You can be our brother.” He hadn’t changed out of his suit since the funeral, so he was suitably dressed for the part of a man just off the train.
“I’ve been your brother before. It wasn’t much fun. I’ll be your husband this time. More possibilities.”
“Nothing doing, I’m—”
“Besides, we don’t look much alike. And neither of us looks like Lorna. I met her. She didn’t have any freckles or your coloring. If I’m your husband, it doesn’t matter about my looks, and you can always say you’re half sister to Lorna if it comes to a challenge.”
He had a point. But that word—husband—was sticking at me, pushing images into my head that were hard to shove out.
Fifteen minutes later we arrived at the address of the late Lorna McCall, a cozy cluster of two-story buildings shaded with flowering bushes and overarching trees that lent privacy and a look of self-satisfied prosperity to the complex.
“Lorna was young to have been this successful,” remarked David approvingly.
Without much effort, we located the manager, a suspicious, hawk-nosed female with dark hair braided and wrapped around the side of her head like earmuffs. She gave me the silent hat-to-toe treatment when I introduced myself.
“I’m Lorna McCall’s sister from Topeka, Kansas.” I clutched a hanky in my hand in case I should burst into tears. “The police notified me about Lorna’s … Lorna’s horrible … death,” I choked, “and, well, we came as soon as we could.” Unmoved at the sight of my affliction, she turned her stare to David. “And this is my husband, David.”
David whipped the hat off his head, put his arm around my shoulders, and gave me a husbandly squeeze. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am. And you would be?”
“Mrs. Patterson.”
�
�Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Patterson. I hope we haven’t come at an inconvenient moment, ma’am, but time presses on us cruelly. We have to leave your lovely town tomorrow to get home to our two babies. Meanwhile, we set aside this afternoon to have a look through Lorna’s apartment, and if you would be so kind as to show us the way, we’ll be out of your hair.”
Now I’m usually pretty quick on the uptake, as you might expect after a lifetime coping with stage catastrophes. I’ve improvised my way through a theater curtain catching fire, a drunk barging into our act, Darcy Darling throwing up in the middle of a song, magic tricks that went amiss, and a minor earthquake, but for some reason, David rattled my composure. I could only blanch at the talk of babies—that certainly wasn’t in my script. And I didn’t like losing control of the script.
But it melted dour old Mrs. Patterson. David’s endearing smile was worth the price of admission, and that farmboy manner of his would charm a snake. Producing a skeleton key from her pocket, the woman led the way to the rear of the complex and up the stairs.
“The police told me that no one saw any visitors to Lorna’s on Sunday. I thought that mighty odd, but now I understand. With all these bushes, someone could come and go without being noticed.”
She nodded. “Over there’s the passageway to the parking lot, so a body could come through there, walk along here, and go upstairs without another soul laying eyes on him. We’ve always felt the privacy was an asset, but now some of the residents are wondering if we shouldn’t cut back the shrubbery.”
She unlocked the door and stood aside as David took my hand and led me in. “Take your time,” she said. “Come get me when you leave. If you need boxes, I have a few.”
I burst into tears.
“Excuse my wife, Mrs. Patterson. This has been hard on her. She’s normally not so emotional but what with Lorna’s death and the new baby on the way, well…”