Sheri Cobb South

by Babes in Tinseltown

  This accusation, although teasing, was close enough to the truth that Mitch was thankful when Kathleen didn’t press the point.

  “Tell me, have you seen William Stanford? I heard he was playing Lord Leicester. Is he as dishy in person as he looks on the silver screen?”

  “I only saw him once, and that was from far away,” Frankie confessed. “He looked awfully handsome on horseback, though. They say he does all his own stunts, can you imagine?”

  Mitch muttered something incomprehensible about pretty boy actors, and began to rise from his chair.

  “Oh, don’t leave on my account,” Kathleen protested, grasping his sleeve. “I only stopped by in the hope of seeing Mr. Cohen—Arthur Cohen, that is, not his brother.”

  “He was watching the filming early this morning, but I haven’t seen him in, oh, at least a couple of hours. Have you asked his secretary? Maybe he’s in his office.”

  “I’d hoped to bump into him on the set, sort of accidentally on purpose.” Kathleen flicked back the edge of her glove and glanced at her slim gold wristwatch. “I’d better fly now. Perhaps I’ll beard the lion in his den after all. Goodbye, Mitch, it was nice seeing you again. Frankie, I’ll see you this evening, and I’ll expect to hear all about it!”

  Frankie promised to give her a full accounting and wished her roommate luck on her meeting with Mr. Cohen. Having finished their meal, she and Mitch disposed of the remains and walked together to the large white cinderblock building that housed Soundstage B. Inside, a dozen actors in period costume milled about the edges of what appeared to be an Elizabethan tavern complete with rows of heavy wooden tables and a massive brick fireplace in one wall. Upon closer inspection, though, the tavern proved to be just as incongruous as the castle outside had been. A door set into the opposite wall appeared to lead to a narrow London street, but as Frankie walked past, she could see that the door opened onto nothing but bare concrete floor. The flickering light from the wall sconces was supplemented by huge round spotlights on all sides. The tavern had no ceiling at all; instead, the set was open all the way to the roof, where still more lights and several microphones on long cords dangled from the catwalks crisscrossing the building overhead.

  “Guess I’d better get to work,” Mitch said, indicating the catwalks with a jerk of his thumb. “Break a leg—or do they only say that to stage actors?”

  “You’re not going up there?” Frankie craned her neck.

  “What’s this?” Mitch gave her a knowing grin. “You’re not afraid I’ll fall, are you?”

  Frankie tossed her head. “I’m just afraid you might land on William Stanford, that’s all.”

  “Yeah, what a tragedy that would be—I might mess up his hair,” retorted Mitch, heading for the ladder.

  Once filming began, Frankie had very little time to worry about Mitch—or anyone else, for that matter. Her role in this scene was a little more demanding, but only a little: she was to swish her way between the rows of tables with a wooden tray perched on her hip, pausing from time to time to serve the queen’s courtiers tankards of a foaming liquid that looked like beer but probably wasn’t; alcoholic beverages were not used during filming as a result of one particular scene, legendary in Hollywood lore, which required such extensive re-shooting that the entire cast was thoroughly soused by the time it was complete.

  No such catastrophe occurred today, although one of the male extras, obviously a student of the dramatic school known as method acting, went so far in his portrayal of boisterous revelry as to pinch Frankie on her derriere. Frankie let out a little squeak of indignation, but as the cameras were still rolling, there was nothing she could do but be thankful that everyone else’s attention was on Alice Howard, the young actress who played the queen’s lady-in-waiting Gwyneth, who was at that moment stealing furtively into the tavern disguised as a boy. Not for the first time, Frankie wished she had a copy of the script so that she might follow the plot.

  The director, however, was not satisfied. “Cut!” he bellowed. “Everyone back to your places. Rose, do—something—with Alice’s costume!” He made a vague gesture in the direction of his chest.

  The wardrobe mistress, correctly interpreting this command, hurried forward with a pin cushion. For the next five minutes, she tugged at Alice’s doublet from all directions, anchoring the fabric in place so that it clung more closely to the young actress’s curves. Frankie could only assume Queen Elizabeth’s knights suffered from poor eyesight; surely there was no other explanation for how an entire roomful of men could fail to recognize a female dressed in a doublet that, while technically meeting the rigid standards of the Hays Code, certainly did nothing to hide her charms.

  “Places, everyone . . . and . . . action!”

  Choking back a giggle, Frankie made her way between the tables once more, this time avoiding the method actor. Once again, Gwyneth had scarcely made her entrance when a voice bellowed, “Cut!”

  Everyone turned to the director, but he still sat in his folding canvas chair, his megaphone on the floor beside him.

  “Whash—wha’s going on here?”

  Arthur Cohen staggered forward, his tie crooked, his face flushed. The soundstage was warm from the spotlights, but surely not so hot as to warrant the beads of perspiration that dotted the producer’s forehead.

  “Martinis for lunch, eh, Artie? Wish I’d been invited,” the director, Mr. Harrison, quipped in a jovial voice that didn’t quite ring true. “We’re shooting the tavern scene this afternoon—you know, the one where Gwyneth delivers the queen’s message to Leicester.” He waved an arm in the direction of William Stanford and Alice Harper, who bobbed their heads in acknowledgement.

  “You are, eh?” Arthur Cohen lurched forward onto the set, belligerence in every wobbly step. “Well, I’ll have you remember that I’m in charge here. I still run this studio, no matter what some may say to the contrary! Me, not Maury and his pie-in-the-sky Technicolor, and not these damned Brits who think they’re the greatest thing in acting since William Shakespeare.”

  “Of course you’re in charge, Artie, everyone knows this is your picture.” The director rose from his chair and took a few steps in Mr. Cohen’s direction. “Tell you what, why don’t you go back to your office for a bit of a nap, and this evening we’ll take a look at the rushes. I think you’re going to be pleased.”

  But it was clear that Arthur Cohen was not pleased. His rant grew louder and more incoherent, ending with something about “two-bit whores who’ll lie on their back for anyone who promises to make ‘em a star!”

  Alice burst into sobs, and William Stanford put a protective arm around her shoulders. “Here now, there’s no call for that sort of talk—”

  “You remember who signs your check!” Cohen wagged a pudgy finger in the actor’s face. “I’m the one in charge here, not you, and not Maury, and not my wife! I’m the one who—I’m the one—I’m—”

  His face turned an ugly shade of purple, and then Arthur Cohen fell forward, landing with a thud at Frankie’s feet.

  Chapter 5

  Murder, My Sweet (1944)

  Directed by Edward Dmytryk

  Starring Dick Powell, Claire Trevor, and Anne Shirley

  Alice screamed. William Stanford muttered something under his breath, the gist of which seemed to be that men who weren’t capable of holding their liquor didn’t have any business drinking at all. Frankie, white-faced with fear and shock, stepped gingerly aside, but not before catching a whiff of something earthy and green, something she had smelled once before, and that not long ago.

  “Damn it, why can’t he get drunk on his own time?” grumbled Mr. Harrison. “Bob, get a couple of grips to help you and see if you can get him back to his office. Maybe his secretary can pour a few quarts of black coffee into him.”

  The key grip called for three of his assistants, and together they grasped the producer by his arms and legs and lifted him from the floor. His head lolled back, unresisting.

  “Wait a minute.�
� The man who played William Cecil rose from one of the wooden benches, a veteran character actor instantly recognizable for any one of a dozen supporting roles, although not one person in fifty would have recalled his name. “I think we’d better call an ambulance.”

  “An ambulance?” echoed the director impatiently. “What the hell for? He’s passed out drunk.”

  The actor didn’t argue, but knelt down beside Arthur Cohen, looking in his costume for all the world like a vassal paying homage to his fallen liege, and felt his chest for a pulse. “I was at Ypres,” he said with quiet dignity. “I know a dead man when I see one.”

  Harrison stepped onto the set and looked down into Arthur Cohen’s dead face. The lifeless eyes still bulged, but the mottled purple that had suffused his cheeks only moments ago had begun to subside, leaving his face a pasty gray hue.

  “What was it? A heart attack, or maybe a stroke brought on my too much alcohol?”

  “The men in the white coats should be able to tell us—assuming that someone has sent for them,” the veteran added pointedly.

  The director, taking the hint, barked an order to his assistant, then raised his voice to address the entire cast and crew. “Looks like we’d better call it a day, folks.”

  Still, no one seemed inclined to leave. Actors, cameramen, and technicians all huddled together in small groups, speculating in lowered voices. Not until the ambulance had come to take the producer’s body away did the crowd at last disperse.

  “Places, everyone,” called the director without much conviction. They all complied, from William Stanford down to the lowliest grip, but it was all for naught. After seven takes, in which Stanford accidentally kicked a hidden electrical wire unplugged, one of the knights knocked over a tankard of fake beer, and Alice forgot her lines twice, the director decided to call it a day.

  “Better yet, take tomorrow off, too,” he added. “I’ll see you all on Thursday.”

  The cast and crew dispersed with grateful murmurs of relief. Mitch descended from one of the overhead catwalks and paused near the set, where Frankie still stood as if frozen. “Give you a lift?”

  She smiled weakly. “Yes, please.”

  He waited outside Wardrobe while she changed back into her street clothes. Apparently the word of Arthur Cohen’s death had spread rapidly; cars and pedestrians, actors and technicians alike seemed to slow down as they passed Soundstage B as if hoping for a glimpse of the body.

  Soon Frankie returned, so pale and quiet that Mitch was moved to drape a comforting arm about her shoulders as they walked to his car.

  “There was nothing anyone could have done,” he said. “Poor devil probably never knew what hit him.”

  Frankie made no reply, but stood by silently as he opened the passenger door for her. He climbed in on the driver’s side, and soon they were turning out of the studio gates and into the street. The sun was low in the west by this time, and the shadows of the palm and pepper trees along the road striped the pavement with purple and gold.

  “Mitch,” Frankie said abruptly, “what’s a martini?”

  “It’s a cocktail,” he answered, taken aback.

  “I know that! I mean, how is it made? What’s in it?”

  “Gin and vermouth, with an olive on a toothpick.” Mitch cocked one eyebrow. “Why? Are you thirsty?”

  “No. And I don’t think Mr. Cohen was, either.”

  Mitch stomped the brake, to the displeasure of the driver of the black DeSoto behind him. “What are you saying?”

  “I don’t think Mr. Cohen had been drinking before he died.”

  “You don’t think—oh, come on, you saw the man! He was completely plastered!”

  The driver of the DeSoto leaned on the horn. Mitch waved a “mea culpa” and floored the accelerator.

  “If Mr. Cohen was so drunk,” Frankie pressed on, “why didn’t he have alcohol on his breath?”

  Mitch gave a short, humorless laugh. “Honey, I’ll bet you wouldn’t know what liquor smelled like if—”

  “I would, too!” Frankie retorted, bristling. “When I was fourteen, I stumbled across the bottle of Jack Daniels Daddy kept hidden in the well.”

  Mitch guffawed, a real laugh this time. “You’re kidding! Don’t tell me you drank it!”

  “Well, no. I was going to—just to see what it tasted like—but it smelled so nasty I couldn’t bring myself to do it. In fact, if it tastes anything like it smells, I wonder why Daddy bothers? Unless he just likes the idea of putting one over on Mama.”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me,” said Mitch, who by this time had heard enough of Frankie’s mother to have formed a reasonably accurate picture of that formidable female.

  “But back to what I was saying,” Frankie continued, determined not to be sidetracked. “Mr. Cohen didn’t smell like that at all.”

  “Well, whiskey and vermouth are two different things,” Mitch hedged.

  “Yes, and I’ll tell you something else I’ll bet you don’t know! Do you remember the night you took Pauline Moore to dinner?”

  “How could I forget?” Mitch mused in so cryptic a tone that Frankie’s single-mindedness was in imminent danger of wavering. The only thing that kept her on track was not the memory of Arthur Cohen’s untimely end, but a perverse determination not to give Mitch the satisfaction of hearing her beg for details of his date with Pauline.

  “Well,” she continued, “that very same afternoon, Mr. Cohen quarreled with his brother Maurice.”

  Mitch arched a skeptical eyebrow. “He told you this in a job interview?”

  “No, not exactly.” Frankie glanced up at him guiltily. “You see, I didn’t exactly have an interview with him. Oh, I tried, but there was no one at the reception desk. I heard voices down the hall, though, so I followed the sound to Mr. Cohen’s office and waited outside the door. I was going to knock, but I didn’t want to interrupt, so I just—I sort of—”

  “Frances Foster!” exclaimed Mitch with unholy glee. “Do you mean to tell me that you eavesdropped outside the man’s door? What would your mother say?”

  Frankie sighed. “She would say that eavesdroppers never hear anything good about themselves. And she’d be right. Only I didn’t hear anything about myself—how could I, when neither one of the Cohen brothers had ever heard of me?—but I did hear them arguing, and I heard Mr. Cohen tell his brother that if he wanted him out of the business, he’d have to kill him first.”

  Mitch let out a long, low whistle, but didn’t speak for a long moment. “Look honey,” he said at last, “it must have been awkward for you, stuck there in the hall, and I’m sure you must have been nervous. Under the circumstances, it wouldn’t be surprising if you misunderstood—”

  “Don’t patronize me, Mitchell Gannon! I know what I heard!”

  “Okay, okay!” Mitch released the steering wheel and raised his hands in mock surrender. “But think about what you’re saying. Do you honestly believe Arthur Cohen was murdered, and by his own brother, at that? That’s a pretty strong accusation.”

  “I’m not accusing anyone—not exactly. I just think it’s a bit too much of a coincidence, that’s all.”

  “Are you going to call the police?”

  “Are you kidding? I wouldn’t dare. I’ve got no proof, so they’d probably laugh at me. But I’ll bet Maurice Cohen wouldn’t laugh! At best he’d fire me for eavesdropping, and at worst he’d fire me for eavesdropping and then sue me for slander. Either way, I’d find myself on the next train back to Georgia.”

  Mitch shook his head. “A fate too horrible to contemplate! So, what do you plan to do?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that, and—” Frankie swiveled in her seat and gave him a long, measuring look. “Mitch, do you know how to pick locks?”

  “What makes you think I would know such a thing?” demanded Mitch.

  “Feminine intuition,” she responded without hesitation. “Well, do you?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. What kind of lock do you want picked?”
r />   “A door lock. The door to Mr. Cohen’s office, to be exact. Can you get it open?”

  “I can,” Mitch agreed cautiously, “but I’m still not convinced that I want to. Why do you need to get into his office?”

  Frankie gave an impatient little huff. “Don’t you see? If someone murdered Mr. Cohen—notice, I said ‘if’!—then he must have been in Mr. Cohen’s office not too much earlier.”

  “Yeah?” Mitch’s tone suggested curiosity mixed with a healthy dose of skepticism.

  “He had to have some time to administer the poison, or whatever it was,” Frankie pointed out impatiently.

  “Oh, so now Cohen was poisoned! How do you figure that?”

  “Well, he obviously wasn’t shot, or stabbed, or conked on the head! Poison is the only other method I could think of off the top of my head.”

  “Brilliant deduction, Dr. Watson! And now I, Mr. Holmes, will use my superior intellect to reveal the murderer’s identity.”

  “Oh, really?” Frankie’s chilly tone could have frozen water.

  “Miss Kathleen Stuart, by her own admission, had an appointment with Mr. Cohen. A short time later, he stumbles onto the soundstage and keels over dead. Clearly, Miss Foster, your roommate is a ruthless killer.”

  “Very funny! Now, if we could get some costumes from Wardrobe and pose as a cleaning crew, I think we could get into Mr. Cohen’s office without attracting undue attention, and—”

  “ ‘We’?” echoed Mitch. “I don’t remember agreeing to any of this.”

  “Okay, fine! I don’t need your help, anyway.” Frankie’s chin rose defiantly, but her eyes grew luminous and her lower lip quivered. “I’ll do it myself, and if a ruthless murderer finds me there and kills me to keep his terrible secret from being discovered, you can tell my parents I want a simple headstone of white marble with the words ‘She Was Right’ carved beneath my name.”