Sheri Cobb South

by Babes in Tinseltown

  “Oh Mitch, would you? That would be swell.”

  He led her out to the parking lot where he’d left his car and opened the passenger door. She collapsed onto the seat with a groan while he slid behind the wheel and turned the key in the ignition.

  “Self-starter,” he pointed out proudly. “No more hand cranking for me! Not if I’m going to get Cinderella home from the ball in time.”

  “Don’t bother. Midnight was hours ago, and my stockings have already turned into rags. If I never have to wear high heels again, it’ll be all too soon.”

  As Mitch made the turn onto Sunset Boulevard, Frankie kicked off her shoes and propped one foot up on the dashboard to inspect the damage. Mitch had always thought he was a breast man, but he took one glance at Frankie’s bare toes poking through the runs in her ruined stockings and almost drove into a telephone pole.

  “Soak them in Epsom salts,” he recommended briskly, fixing his eyes firmly ahead. “That should toughen them up.”

  “My stockings?” asked Frankie, puzzled.

  “No, your feet.” He nodded at them without taking his eyes from the road. “We did it all the time at A & M.”

  “Oh.” Frankie wasn’t quite sure how she felt about spending over two hours held closely in a man’s arms, only to have him compare her to a linebacker.

  There was hardly any traffic on the streets at this late hour, and the trip back to the Studio Club was accomplished in record time. Mitch drew up next to the curb and walked Frankie to the front door. His next move presented a dilemma. Did spending five bucks for exclusive rights to dance with one particularly troublesome female qualify as a date? Did it entitle him to claim a goodnight kiss? On the other hand, even if she wasn’t willing, she was probably too tired to fight him off. He might never get a better chance.

  He steered her under the triple arches fronting the building to a darkened corner where the halo from the corner streetlight didn’t quite penetrate. His hands closed around her shoulders, and he was just about to bend his head to kiss her when the sputter of an engine broke the silence, and the twin beams of a vehicle’s headlights swung a bright arc around the corner. A moment later a milk truck drove past, the glass bottles in the back clinking together with every bump in the road.

  “Mitch?” Frankie asked breathlessly.

  “Yeah?”

  “Will you take me to the library tomorrow?”

  “I’ll take you anywhere you want to go,” he promised, and lowered his head to hers.

  “Pssst!”

  Mitch snapped to attention. “What the—?”

  A blond head, silver in the streetlights, leaned out of a second-floor window above their heads.

  “Kathleen!” Frankie exclaimed, hastily pushing Mitch away. “What are you doing up at this hour?”

  “Waiting for you. You can’t get in that way. The front door’s locked. You’ll have to go ‘round to the back. I slipped down and left it on the latch for you.”

  “Left it on the latch?” Mitch echoed, at a loss.

  “Left the back door unlocked,” Frankie translated. “She’s British, remember?”

  “How could I forget?” He glared up at their chaperone, who apparently had no intention of leaving her post until Frankie was safely inside.

  He followed Frankie as far as the wrought iron gate at the end of the building, but before he could make another move in her direction, she had already slipped inside.

  “Goodnight, Mitch,” she said, looking back at him between the decorative iron bars. “You’re a pretty swell guy, you know that?”

  He watched as she turned and stole through the shadows to the back door. “Honey,” he muttered, “you don’t know the half of it.”

  Chapter 11

  Another Fine Mess (1930)

  Directed by Hal Roach

  Starring Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy

  True to his word, Mitch arrived at the Studio Club at ten o’clock the following morning and drove Frankie to the Hollywood branch of the Los Angeles Public Library. He’d done his homework well, and had no trouble locating the building on the corner of Hollywood Boulevard and Ivar Street. Parking along the street in the shadow of its corner tower, he found its Mediterranean façade not unlike that of the Hollywood Studio Club, with the same arched windows and doors and roof of red clay tiles. If the ornately scrolled windows looking down from the third floor of the tower had actually offered a view of the Riviera, as their architecture suggested, it would have been a promising spot to take any girl. As it was, filling such a fanciful structure with shelves of dusty books seemed to him a bit like false advertising. He could only be glad none of his teammates from A & M were here to see him. If they knew he’d sunk to taking girls to the library, he’d never live it down.

  He glanced over at the passenger seat where Frankie sat, cool and crisp in a green skirt and white blouse. “Tell me again, what are we looking for?”

  “I’m not sure, but I’ll know it when I see it,” she said, with all the confidence of a young woman on a mission. “In the meantime, we’re going to learn all we can about pennyroyal.”

  Mitch rolled his eyes heavenward. “I can hardly wait.”

  Still, he followed her up the shallow stairs without protest and waited patiently while she consulted with the librarian. Minutes later, they had taken possession of a scarred wooden table in a corner, each with a stack of reference books in front of them. Mitch took the top one off the pile and began to thumb through it.

  “Pennyroyal, huh?”

  “Shh!” Frankie spoke in a stage whisper, one finger raised to her pursed lips. “Remember, you’re in a library.”

  How could he forget? He looked at Frankie’s invitingly puckered lips and suppressed a groan of sheer frustration. Ever since he’d kissed her on the train, he’d been looking for an opportunity—or an excuse—to do it again. But kissing in a library was probably just as forbidden as talking, and at any rate, Frankie wasn’t interested. She had already turned back to her stack of books.

  “Here’s something,” she said, ignoring her own admonition of silence. “It says here that although its effectiveness has not been proven, pennyroyal has been used for treating asthma, indigestion, liver disease, stomach disorders, and—” She looked up from the book she was reading. “Mitch, what’s an abortifacient?”

  “What?”

  “Oh, am I not pronouncing it correctly? It says here that pennyroyal is sometimes used as an aborti—”

  “Never mind!” Mitch put up his hands as if to ward off an attack. “I heard you the first time.”

  “So what is it?”

  Mitch cleared his throat and ran his finger inside his collar that suddenly felt too tight. “Well, you see, when a girl does something she shouldn’t—with a guy, I mean, and they’re not married—” He glanced wildly about the room, desperate for some obliging librarian to shush him, but to no avail. Where were the old biddies when you needed them? “—Well, when that happens, sometimes she finds herself in trouble, and—”

  Frankie gave a world-weary sigh. “I’m not stupid, Mitch. When Veronica Beauregard took up with that no-good Leroy Lester and then got shipped off to her aunt in Richmond for six months, everybody at school knew exactly what was going on.”

  “Okay,” Mitch said, glad to be spared the necessity of giving a lecture on the birds and the bees. “But sometimes if a girl has nowhere to go, and if the fellow won’t marry her, then she has to find a way to get rid of it.”

  “Can you do that?” asked Frankie, wide eyed.

  “Well, there are ways—apparently pennyroyal is one of them—to make it come too early—way too early.”

  “And so the baby dies?”

  “It’s not yet developed enough to live. It doesn’t even look like a baby yet. Or so I’ve been told,” he added hastily, lest she get the wrong impression. Heaven knew he was no saint, but he’d never gotten a girl in the family way—at least not to his knowledge.

  Frankie stared thoughtful
ly into space. “What an awful decision to have to make.”

  “Dangerous, too.” Mitch thought of one of his teammates from high school, who’d had to quit the football team in order to get an after-school job to pay for his girlfriend’s abortion, only to have her bleed to death following the procedure. “A botched abortion can be fatal.”

  Frankie gave him a mischievous smile. “At least we can be certain that wasn’t what Mr. Cohen was taking it for! He said something to his brother about indigestion, and his wife mentioned him recommending some doctor to others at the studio, but I don’t remember the man’s name.” Her brow puckered as she considered the matter. “It seems odd that a doctor would tell him to take pennyroyal. You’d think a doctor would recommend Carter’s Little Liver Pills or something like that.”

  “You’re right,” Mitch agreed, much struck. “And if a doctor did tell him to drink that stuff, surely he would have told him how much to use so he wouldn’t give himself an accidental overdose.”

  “That’s what I told Russ! I don’t think Mr. Cohen accidentally poisoned himself at all. Someone else must have brewed it for him, or doctored it up somehow so that he would make it too strong.”

  “That would make Brother Maurice the most likely suspect. He was right there in the room with him.”

  Frankie shook her head. “That’s what I thought too, at first, but now I’m not so sure. Maurice was scolding his brother for drinking it, remember? Why would he do that, if he wanted him to drink the poison and die?”

  “That’s easy. He didn’t want old Artie to suspect he was up to something.” Seeing Frankie was not convinced, he added, “Let’s face it, Frankie, he had a motive and an opportunity. Isn’t that what they always look for in the crime flicks?”

  “Hmm.” Frankie drummed her fingers on the table as she considered the possibilities. “So what we need to do is make a list of all the people with a reason to want Mr. Cohen dead. Then if we could somehow make a list of the people Mr. Cohen saw that day, we could compare the two.”

  “A list? How many enemies do you think old Artie had?”

  “I don’t know, but I think I met one of them yesterday. Worldwide Studios is making a picture awfully similar to Monumental’s. Several of Monumental’s people were there, and the producer seemed to enjoy seeing all of us begging for work. He said Arthur Cohen drove himself into an early grave trying to get his picture into theaters first. I got the impression they might’ve had words over it.” Her face fell. “I wish I’d taken a closer look at his desk calendar that night while we were in his office. It might have given us some hint, but it’s too late now.”

  Something about Frankie’s downcast expression made Mitch want to go out and slay dragons. “You want a look at his calendar? I’ll get you in there,” he declared, jabbing his thumb into his chest.

  “Thanks, but no thanks. Our last attempt at breaking and entering didn’t work out so well, if you’ll remember. I’ve sworn off a life of crime.”

  “Who said anything about breaking and entering? We’ll go there during regular office hours, I’ll create a diversion, and bang! You’re in.”

  “What kind of diversion?” Frankie asked, unconvinced.

  He gave her a wink. “You just leave that to me.”

  “But even if it works, what makes you think the desk calendar will still be there? Surely Mr. Cohen’s office has been cleaned out by this time.”

  “Are you kidding? There’s hardly anybody at the studio these days. The place is a mausoleum.”

  Frankie wrinkled her nose. “That’s an awful comparison to make, under the circumstances, but I see what you mean. So when do we put this plan of yours into action?”

  Mitch pushed his chair back from the table and stood up. “You know what they say: there’s no time like the present.”

  “Now?” asked Frankie, taken aback. “You mean, right this minute?”

  “Are you going to chicken out on me?”

  “Me, chicken? Never!” She hastily piled the books into a stack for the librarian to reshelf, then shoved her chair back. “Let’s go.”

  Abandoning the library, they climbed back into Mitch’s car and headed for the Monumental Pictures studio, stopping along the way at a service station on Hollywood Boulevard.

  “Eighteen cents a gallon,” Mitch grumbled. “Just watch, it’ll be up to two bits by the end of the year.”

  While the attendant pumped the gas and checked the oil, Mitch went inside to pay and came back with two ice-cold bottles of RC Cola and a small packet of parched peanuts.

  “Drink up,” he said, handing one of the bottles to Frankie.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” Frankie began, but Mitch cut her off.

  “I know I didn’t have to.” He tore the top corner off the packet of peanuts. “But we’ve got a job to do, and I want to try and catch that receptionist while most of the people in the building are at the commissary eating lunch. We might as well fortify ourselves while we’ve got the chance. Peanuts?”

  Convinced of the logic of this argument, Frankie held out her hand, and Mitch shook half of the peanuts into her palm. The rest he poured down the narrow neck of the glass bottle, causing the soda to give off a half-hearted fizz.

  Frankie watched, bemused, as he tipped the bottle up to his mouth, peanuts and all.

  “It’s good that way,” he said defensively, seeing her dubious expression. “You ought to try it.”

  She shook her head. “I’ll take your word for it. Now, be serious. Are you sure you can keep that receptionist occupied?”

  Mitch cranked up the car and gave her a sidelong glance. “Don’t you trust me?”

  Frankie, at a loss for words, didn’t answer. She had known many young men back home in Georgia, but Mitch wasn’t like any of them. There were the nice young men that Mama expected her to marry, and there were the bad boys who got a girl in trouble and who were to be avoided at all costs. Mitch didn’t seem to fit into either category. It was true that he had given her every reason to trust him; she owed her room at the Studio Club to his intervention, and his appearance at the Starlight Ballroom had been a godsend. Still, there was something about him that warned her not to get too close even though there was no real evidence against him, aside from the fact that he’d kissed her on the train and then apparently forgotten all about it, and then had gone on a date with that awful Pauline person. And Pauline still hadn’t come by two o’clock in the morning. Not that Frankie was waiting up for her.

  Mitch sighed and turned his attention back to his driving. “Okay, so I guess you don’t trust me. How about if I promise I won’t let you land in jail? Is that good enough?”

  “Yes. Thank you, Mitch,” Frankie said in a small voice, aware that she had hurt him without quite knowing why.

  And it seemed that Mitch was as good as his word. When they reached the studio, a bored guard waved them through the gate with a lazy hand, and in no time at all they entered the Spanish-style stucco building that housed the Monumental offices. The same receptionist sat at the desk eating an apple and reading a magazine. As they entered, she hastily shut the magazine and stuffed it into the top drawer of her desk. Photoplay, Frankie guessed, or maybe Modern Screen.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt your lunch,” Frankie said pleasantly. “I was just wondering if there was any news on when they might resume filming on The Virgin Queen.” She could feel her face grow warm, and deplored the necessity of mentioning the V-word in front of Mitch.

  “Not that I know of.” the receptionist looked at them over the top of her glasses. “The only one who might know is Maurice Cohen, and he’s not telling.”

  “Could I see him?” Frankie tried to sound hopeful, knowing quite well that, at this time, he would be out to lunch. At least, she hoped he was out to lunch. If he happened to be spending the lunch hour in his office, all her plans would be wrecked.

  “He’s out to lunch right now.” The receptionist toyed with the chain dangling from her glasses. “If y
ou’d like to leave a message, I’ll see that he gets it.”

  Frankie hesitated, looking for an excuse to linger, when Mitch spoke up.

  “I could use a little lunch myself. What do you say, Frankie? My treat.”

  Frankie was just about to remind him that he’d just downed an entire RC Cola and most of a bag of peanuts when she saw the look he gave her.

  “That sounds swell,” she said quickly. “I’d like to powder my nose first, if Miss—” She glanced at the desk, where a small wooden plaque bore the name of Martha Honeycutt. “—Miss Honeycutt will point me toward the ladies’ room.”

  Miss Honeycutt gestured toward the corridor. “Down the hall to your right, third door on the left.”

  “Thanks. Back in a jiffy,” she added to Mitch, waggling her fingers at him.

  The ladies’ room was in the opposite direction from Arthur Cohen’s office, but Frankie headed down the hall in that direction anyway. She stopped outside the ladies’ room door, counted to ten, then tiptoed back down the hall in the other direction. As she passed the open doorway to the front office, she heard Mitch’s voice.

  “Honeycutt, eh? It suits you. A sweet name for a sweet girl.”

  “Hardly a girl, Mr.—?”

  “Gannon. But you can call me Mitch.”

  “Mr. Gannon,” the secretary said firmly, clearly holding no truck with fresh young men. “As I said, I’m no girl. I’ve worked for Monumental for eight years.”

  “You’re kidding me! How come no fellow has ever come in here and carried you off?”

  I think I’m going to be sick, Frankie thought, rolling her eyes as she tiptoed quickly past.

  The door to Arthur Cohen’s office was closed but not locked. Frankie slipped inside and allowed her eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light. She didn’t dare switch on the overhead light lest someone returning from lunch notice the light underneath the door. She moved toward the big desk, her footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. Someone—removing incriminating evidence, perhaps?—had made an attempt at cleaning. Several personal items that Frankie remembered from her earlier visit were now gone, including a silver fountain pen in a stand and a framed photograph which Frankie now realized must have been a picture of Letitia Lamont. The desk calendar was also missing, so any secrets it might have contained were lost. The blotter was still there but the top sheet, which had been covered with scribblings before, was now pristine.