by Lanyon, Josh
“Don’t tell me he’s involved in this?”
I nodded. “Eva was engaged to him for about six months. She broke it off a few days before her death. No one seems to know what went wrong, but by all accounts it wasn’t an amicable split.”
“He’s not an amicable guy. Or he wasn’t. He was one of those old school gangsters like Mickey Cohen or Johnny Stompanato. He’s in some kind of old folks home now.”
“He’s got Alzheimer’s,” I said. “Currently residing at Golden Palms Nursing Home in Santa Barbara.”
Jack’s eyebrows rose. “You’ve done your homework.”
“Yeah, well.” It bothered me that this surprised him.
For a minute our eyes held. Jack seemed to notice he had a beer in his hand and took a swig.
“So,” he said, lowering the bottle. “Why don’t you tell me what happened this afternoon? Assault and battery in the laundry room?”
“They sent a uniformed officer by,” I said. “I filled out a report.”
He nodded, noting and dismissing. “What happened?”
I told him exactly what had happened.
“Did you get a look at the guy at all?”
“No. Not a glimpse.”
“What did he sound like?”
“Big.”
He grinned and that damned dimple showed. “Did he have an accent or anything that might help in identifying him?”
I thought back to the close darkness of the laundry room. “He didn’t have an accent that I noticed. I’d say he was a native Angeleno. His voice was deep, mature.” I thought it over. “He sounded confident,” I said. “Like maybe he did this for a living.”
“Hired muscle?” Jack glanced instinctively to the glossy of Tony Fumagalli in his sleazy prime.
I shrugged. “It’s possible. But anyone can hire a thug. It wouldn’t have to be someone connected to Tony the C—” I caught Jack’s eye and for some reason swallowed the rest of the word. “Tony F.”
Was that a gleam of amusement in Jack’s gaze? He said, “Yeah. And Fumagalli did have a rock ha—solid alibi for the Aldrich homicide.”
Okay, it wasn’t just me.
“He was in Vegas at the Tropicana gambling away a small fortune,” I agreed. “But he could have hired someone to kill Eva.”
“That’s true, but whoever whacked Aldrich didn’t appear to be a professional. That was not in any way an execution-style murder. She was stabbed thirteen times. That kind of MO can indicate a couple of things: a disturbed psyche and/or a perceived personal grievance.”
I knew he was right, which was why the ex-husband had been the favorite suspect. The method of Eva’s murder had indicated a certain level of rage or passion that one just didn’t associate with cold-blooded mob bosses.
“Were you able to find anything out?” I asked.
“I was in court most of the day.” He stared at the stack of photos. “I talked to a couple of people. It’s a very cold case. Frozen, in fact.”
“It’s a Hollywood legend.”
“Oh yeah. There are all kinds of wild theories about who might have offed Aldrich. Everyone from her astrologer to the commies.”
“But the most popular theory is her ex-husband, Will Burack.”
“Right.” He studied me meditatively. “You know it usually is the current or former spouse—or boyfriend—in a homicide.”
“I know. And I know the cops tagged Burack as the most likely suspect. But Burack’s dead, so who objects to my looking into this very cold case?”
“I don’t know.” Jack drained his beer bottle and rose. “I take it you’re not planning to back off from this book?”
“No.” I rose too, only half joking, “I’d have to give the advance back. And I already spent it.”
“Right.” He was all business now. “Well, let me give you some advice. Change your routine. And keep changing it. Swim in the afternoons instead of the morning. Don’t use the back parking lot as a short cut. Try a different market besides Whole Foods—and pick a day besides Tuesday to shop. The dead bolt is good, but get a chain on the door and don’t open the door until you see who’s on the other side.”
“Thanks for the advice.” I didn’t think Jack just happened to hit on Tuesdays or Whole Foods market as a hypothetical example of my shopping habits. I wasn’t sure I should be flattered by this attention to detail; it seemed more like Jack on the job rather than Jack romantically interested.
Anyway, I had a lot more important things to focus on—like the fact that while Jack apparently agreed there was a threat here, he didn’t seem to see a way to neutralize it—unless I was willing to drop the book.
I opened the door and Jack stepped out into the warm smoggy night.
He suddenly turned back to me. “Look…Tim. I really was going to call you.” He cleared his throat. “The thing is…I’m not interested in a—a serious relationship.”
I stared at him, heat flooding my face—my entire body—mouth dry, heart slamming against my collarbone. I managed to get out, in a voice that didn’t sound anything like mine, “Neither was I.”
He had the grace to wince. “I know. It’s just…you seemed kind of…vulnerable.” His eyes moved to the bruise on my forehead. “I didn’t think it was fair—”
I quit worrying about being polite on the off chance I ever ran into him around the complex again. “You don’t have to make excuses for not wanting to see me, Jack,” I said. “In fact, I kind of prefer the excuses I made up myself.”
I moved to shut the door, but his hand shot out, stopping it midswing. “I don’t think I explained that very well.”
“You underestimate your communication skills.”
“I really like you, Tim. I hope w—”
“Likewise. ‘Night.”
The door closed firmly, cutting off his subdued “Good night.”
I stood for a moment listening to him walk away. Silence filled the hollow place in my chest where my heart had used to beat.
Chapter Three
“It was all such a long time ago,” Gloria Rayner sighed.
We were sitting in the opulent “drawing room” of her Bel Air home. The room was crowded with the kinds of antiques that probably originally sat in a French palace right before the peasants had had enough and killed everyone they could lay their hands on: spindly-legged gilt chairs, brocade-covered sofas, marble-topped tables, and all kinds of gold-framed mirrors and vases and china knickknacks.
Gloria herself sort of looked like a knickknack with her platinum blonde hair and porcelain made-up face. She was very tiny and very wrinkled. Her baby blue hostess gown was a perfect match for the blue of the silk wallpaper behind her, with its designs of fantasy pagodas and curved bridges.
I said, “I appreciate your taking the time to talk to me again, Ms. Rayner.”
“That’s no hardship, Mr. North,” Gloria said with a flash of that famous smile. “You’re a delicious young morsel.” She giggled at my expression. “When you get to be my age you can say things like that.”
Actually, Gloria had been saying things like that for the last fifty years. She was nearly as famous for her racy comments as she was for the string of B movies that had secured her charter membership in the Hollywood bombshell pantheon. I’d seen a slew of those movies in the name of research, and I’d had to admit that she did have something: sexual charisma or animal magnetism. It was diffused now by age, but she didn’t seem to know that. Or maybe she did know it, and found it all the funnier.
“So you don’t have any idea why Eva broke her engagement to Tony Fumagalli?” I asked for the second time that afternoon.
Gloria bent forward to pick up one of the three white miniature poodles oscillating at her feet. “No,” she said. She straightened up, holding the poodle. “Tony the Cock. What a laugh. Did you know the name Fumagalli means ‘smoked chicken’ in Italian?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yeah. Smoked chicken!” She laughed a throaty nicotine laugh. “You
said you’re a reporter?”
“I used to be.” I stroked the poodle on my own lap. It squirmed contently. “Now I’m writing this book about Eva.”
“About Eva?” she asked shrewdly. “Or about Eva’s murder?”
“Both, really. I can’t really explore the murder without understanding Eva.”
“You figure Eva out, explain her to me,” she replied. She patted the dog’s head with her gnarled fingers. Her nails were mandarin-length and painted in hot pink. One of the other dogs barked and she patted the sofa beside her. “Come on, then!”
The dog jumped, nails slithering on the slick upholstery, and wriggled into place beside Gloria.
I said, “But you were Eva’s best friend.”
“Baby, I was Eva’s only friend. Her only real friend, unless you count that quack Roman Mayfield. Now there was a queer duck. And I do mean queer.”
I looked at my notes. After a moment I said, “Roman Mayfield, the astrologer?”
“Seer to the Stars!” she scoffed. “Yep. He and Eva were as thick as thieves. He told her not to go the party that night.”
I’d heard this several times, but I’d always figured Mayfield’s premonition had been 20/20 hindsight. “Did she say so?”
“He said so. I heard him. For once he was right.” She fastened me with one of her marble blue eyes. “What paper did you used to work for?”
“The Santa Monica Mirror.”
“Never heard of it. So you decided you wanted to be An Author? My third husband was an author. What a joke. The only thing that guy authored were love letters to my secretary. Which is one reason why I don’t keep a secretary anymore. Or a husband.” She laughed that raucous laugh. “Not that I need a secretary these days. No one remembers Gloria Rayner. It’s all about which Third World country Angelina Jolie is adopting this week.” She sighed. “Hollywood isn’t what it used to be. In my day we understood about the fantasy, about entertainment. Who wants to see movie stars holding preferences about death and disease and disaster? Where’s the box office in that?”
“Uh, right.” I made an effort to drag the interview back on course. “So Eva wasn’t afraid of anyone or—?”
“Eva wasn’t afraid of anything,” she interrupted. “Although she was superstitious. She believed all that horseshit Roman used to shovel her way. It wasn’t just an affectation. Tarot cards, astrology, pick-up sticks, who the hell knows what all.”
“But she didn’t believe him that night? She went to the party at the Garden of Allah after he warned her not to.”
“She probably figured Roman was jealous. You must’ve run across the type in your line of work.”
“Roman’s type?”
“Hollywood has more than its share of jealous queens—of both sexes.” She winked at me. “I used to tell Eva I thought Roman believed he controlled the stars instead of just reading ‘em. Took it very personally when anyone didn’t hang on his every prediction.” Gloria shrugged. “Prediction or not, Evie wanted to see Stephen that night.”
“Stephen Ball?”
Gloria nodded and looked down at the dog she was patting. “They were both starring in a picture. Desire in the Dust or something. It was an adventure picture. Eva played Steve’s love interest.”
“Danger in the Dunes,” I said. “But they’d been engaged, right? Stephen Ball and Eva? For a brief time before she met Tony Fumagalli.”
“Yep, but that was all over. On Stephen’s part anyway.”
I tried to read her expression. “So it wasn’t over for Eva? Was that why she broke off her engagement to Fumagalli?”
“Like I said, baby, it was a long time ago.” She studied me. “Tim North. Do your girlfriends call you Timmy? You’re a very nice-looking boy, Timmy. You’ve got striking coloring. Blond hair and brown eyes.” She leaned closer and I automatically straightened up like you do when a wasp is trying to land on your nose. “But they’re not brown, are they? More what we used to call whiskey-colored. Very nice.” She winked. “Very nice.”
I got out, “Uh…Ms. Rayner, who do you think killed Eva?”
She replied instantly, “Will Burack. There was never a question in my mind.”
* * * * *
Gloria pressed me to stay for lunch, but I escaped on the—true—grounds that I had an appointment at the UCLA Library Department of Special Collections.
As it was, by the time I caught the bus for Westwood I was starting to feel tired and a little let down, enough so that I considered skipping UCLA and just heading home. There wasn’t any reason for it. The interview had gone fine, although it was obvious to me from Gloria’s body language and diversionary tactics that she wasn’t being candid about a number of things. That was to be expected. Maybe I wasn’t asking the right questions. Maybe I wasn’t aggressive enough. Or maybe she just needed to get a little more familiar with me—not that she wasn’t plenty familiar.
I’d had a bad night, and that always tended to color the next day. The bad night wasn’t a surprise considering the physical and emotional trauma of the day, and there wasn’t any point giving in to it. I’d had bad nights before—one in particular, which reminded me of Jack. The very last person I needed to be thinking of.
In my experience, when a guy tells you he doesn’t want a serious relationship, he really means he doesn’t want a serious relationship with you. If Mr. Right came along, he’d get serious fast enough. In a way Jack had done me a favor, although my currently fragile ego could have done without his sudden decision to come clean. I already knew Jack didn’t want to pursue a relationship, and I knew why. And once upon a time I’d probably have felt the same way.
So I didn’t blame him, but I didn’t want to be friends with him, either. In fact, I’d be happy never to run into him again. And I was going to do my best to see that I didn’t run into him again, which probably wouldn’t be hard because I was pretty sure Jack felt the same.
The bus roared along its air-conditioned way, and I popped the gold stud I’d removed for my interview with Gloria back in my ear, put my head back and closed my eyes. I thought about what I’d learned from Gloria. I kept remembering the Life magazine layout of that fateful party. Glossy black-and-white photos of Hollywood Babylon. Somehow Hollywood parties just never seemed as glamorous or exclusive as they did back in the ‘40s and ‘50s. Maybe it was because of the old star system. Those old actors and actresses had a mystique that didn’t seem to exist anymore. It wasn’t all good, of course. Part of the price of being packaged for public consumption meant sacrificing a lot of freedom both personally and professionally.
About an hour later, I sat in the hushed Ahmanson-Murphy Reading Room carefully turning the page of the September 1957 issue of Modern Screen magazine. The cover featured an artwork portrait of Eva Aldrich eating an apple. The issue had come out the month of Eva’s death, and it had been a huge seller. The article itself was not wildly informative: one of those planted publicity pieces where Eva chatted girlishly about her latest film, Danger in the Dunes, and her dreamy upcoming wedding to local businessman Tony Fumagalli.
Besides the fact that Eva mentioned her dashing costar Stephen Ball six times during the single-page interview, there didn’t seem to be any indication that her romance with Fumagalli was on the rocks.
Apparently no one—including Fumagalli—had seen it coming.
He hadn’t been the only one, I thought, studying the sexy little grin of Eva’s pinup portrait.
* * * * *
It was late by the time the bus let me off. I was dead tired and the thought of walking all the way around from Central Avenue was about as enticing as a picnic in Death Valley. I thought of Jack’s warning about not using the apartment parking lot as a shortcut, and then I thought to hell with Jack, and turned off the narrow alley that ran behind the neighboring complex.
It wasn’t really an alley, just a pathway of dirt and rocks and weeds stretching behind the buildings with a tall cinder block wall on one side shielding the apartments from the
adjacent freeway.
Oleander bushes lined the freeway side of the wall, dead leaves and withered blossoms scattering the pathway as I strode along the length of two apartment complexes. At the end of the walk was a shorter cinder block wall. There were two wooden crates stacked against the wall providing makeshift steps. I climbed onto the crates and hauled myself up, balancing precariously on top of the wall as I looked down into the parking lot of my own apartment structure.
Jack, wearing jeans, boots, and a black blazer, was getting out of his Jeep. At the sound of my scrabbling ascent, he jerked around and stared.
One leg over the wall, I paused. Our gazes fastened across the roofs of cars.
Busted.
“Nice to see you take my advice seriously,” he said.
“I hang on your every word,” I returned, and I jumped down, landing with the lightness of a lot of practice beside a blue Mustang on wheel blocks.
I’m not sure why I was playing the smart-ass; I could tell by the way his face tightened that it wasn’t going to win points. But then, I didn’t want to win points with Jack anymore, and that allowed for a certain freedom. Actually, it allowed for a lot of freedom considering how very careful I’d been the couple of times we’d gone out. It had been like auditioning for a part or interviewing for a job you knew you weren’t qualified for. I’d been on my best behavior every second. Not giving a damn was surprisingly liberating.
I brushed the seat of my charcoal trousers, feeling where the rough surface of the wall had snagged the material. Jack continued to eye me. I walked toward the gate, passing close enough by him that I could see his five o’clock shadow.
“The fact is,” he said suddenly, “I wanted to talk to you.”
I’d had all the talks with Jack I wanted. “Can it wait? It’s been a long day and I need a shower.”
“It’s about your book. I found something out today that I think you ought to know.”
He sounded pretty grim, so I said, “In that case, follow me, Officer.”