by Alice Duncan
“Thanks, Harold. This is a copy of a Chanel design I sewed up this spring.”
“Chanel is perfection. Excellent choice, my dear.”
As a costumier at a big studio in Los Angeles, Harold, better than most folks, could appreciate my flower-printed pink, mid-calf-length silk afternoon dress with a pin-tucked, boat-shaped neckline. The dress had short, three-tiered sleeves, which matched the detail around the hemline. I wore with it a cloche hat with two pink flowers on it and string of real, honest-to-goodness pearls that had been given to me by a grateful customer three or four years earlier, and little pearl earrings. In a daring gesture, I wore flesh-colored stockings and pointy-toed high-heeled shoes. Naturally, I’d made the dress myself. What’s more, I’d done so for a song, with a bolt end of artificial silk I’d bought at Maxime’s Fabrics on Colorado Boulevard.
I’d also powdered my freckles into submission, and wore the lightest of eyelash and eyebrow darkeners. Not for the world would Desdemona Majesty, spiritualist extraordinaire, be caught in a swanky place clad in anything less than elegance.
Harold and I chatted about nothing much as he drove up Marengo to Colorado Boulevard, turned right, took another right on Lake Avenue, and headed to the Castleton. I knew Miss Emmaline Castleton, daughter of the robber baron who’d built the place. She was a sweet girl whose fiancé had died in the ghastly war.
But I didn’t want to think about the war that day. Harold handed his keys to one liveried boy while another one opened my door and helped me out of the auto. Then Harold escorted me into the hotel and to the Castleton Arms, the fanciest restaurant in the place. There were others. Restaurants, I mean. There was a bar and grill and another little dining room where people who were staying at the hotel could partake of light breakfasts and luncheons.
Harold, who was a trifle plump and who enjoyed his food a whole lot, left those places to others. He went whole hog or not at all. I’d learned that much about him years before, and the knowledge had been cemented a year prior when he’d taken me on the trip to Europe and Egypt. I’d never lived on so exalted a plane—or been less able to enjoy it—as on that trip.
After the waiter led us to our table and held out my chair, I sat and gazed around me. The place was truly grand. Harold ordered mineral water for the both of us—“We should have a nice white wine with our luncheon, but we can’t do that in these benighted times”—and then looked at me. “All right, Daisy, give. What’s up?”
So I told him.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
* * *
“Heroin?” Harold stared at me as if I’d suddenly grown a second head.
“Yes. Dr. Benjamin told me he died of an overdose of heroin. I’d never even heard of the stuff until then.”
“Lord. I’d never have thought it of Eddie. He was such a prudish fellow. He and Lester Knowles frowned upon any sort of less-than-healthy behavior.”
“Lester Knowles was his best friend, right?”
Harold eyed me aslant for a second. “Yes. Sort of the way Del and I are best friends,” he said wryly.
“I see. Mrs. Hastings said that Eddie and Lester and Lester’s sister Adele used to go to plays and other functions together.”
“Yes, they did. Adele was quite an effective smokescreen.”
“By that, I expect you mean that she was there to keep folks from believing Edward and Lester were . . . um . . .”
“Lovers,” said Harold bluntly.
“Er, yes.” I felt heat creep into my cheeks.
“Precisely. And Adele is a very sweet girl. Both she and Lester were cut up over Eddie’s death, and neither one of them believe for a minute that Eddie killed himself.”
“No. Neither does Eddie’s mother.”
“Well, you’d expect that from a mother, I suppose.”
“I suppose.” Something occurred to me, and I decided to broach it boldly. “But Harold, not everyone is as comfortable in his skin as you are. Do you think Eddie might have felt some kind of pressure from his father for being . . . different? If you know what I mean.”
“I know what you mean. And yes, Eddie was embarrassed about his attraction to men. Fought it for years, then finally gave up. But that’s not to say he blabbed about it all over town. I doubt his mother and father even knew. In fact, I expect he would have married Adele eventually.”
“Really? Wouldn’t that have been kind of hard on Adele?”
With a shrug, Harold said, “Oh, I doubt it. Eddie was rich, she’s a nice girl, and I’m sure he could have performed his husbandly duties well enough to beget a child or two with her.”
What an embarrassing conversation! But it might be important. “So, Lester Knowles is out and so is his sister.”
“Out?”
“Neither of them murdered Eddie Hastings.”
“Oh. No, I’m sure they didn’t.”
“Then can you think of anyone who might have hated Eddie? Or might he have killed himself? Perhaps he couldn’t stand the pressure of being different from his peers.” Then I bethought me of the missing syringe, but I didn’t tell Harold about it.
Harold made a face, by which I gathered he didn’t care for that scenario.
“You’ve got a commonsensical temperament, Harold. Not everyone is so fortunate.”
“Maybe not, but Eddie showed no inkling that he was so dissatisfied with his life that he’d want to end it. In fact, pretty much everything seemed to be going his way.”
“Hmm. You liked him, right?”
“Yes. He was a nice fellow.”
“Did you ever talk to him about people who didn’t like him?”
Carefully buttering a piece of roll, Harold thought for a second, then said, “We didn’t talk about stuff like that. When we got together, it was usually at social functions. Charity balls and so forth.”
“Charity balls? You go to charity balls?”
Harold borrowed a gesture from Sam and rolled his eyes. “Can’t get out of ’em. You know my mother. Besides, attending such functions looks good to the folks who employ me. You read the newspapers, don’t you? How many times have you seen picture stars attending a benefit for some cause or other?”
“Well . . . lots of times.”
“There you go. That’s mainly the type of place I’d see Eddie. Sometimes at a friend’s house at a dinner party or something like that.”
“And he never mentioned anyone threatening him or anything like that?”
“Lord, no.”
We were interrupted by the waiter, who’d kindly left us the basket of flaky rolls and a couple of menus, which we were supposed to have been looking at. I felt guilty for not having selected my menu choice. Clearly, I wasn’t born to the purple, as it were.
Harold suffered no such qualms and wasn’t intimidated by waiters in snobbish restaurants. “We’ll need another minute.”
“Certainly, sir.”
As the waiter loped off, Harold said, “Decide what you want to eat, Daisy. I recommend the lobster Newburg.”
Who was I to reject lobster? Nobody, that’s who. “Sounds good to me.”
Beaming at me from across the small table, Harold said, “I must say, Daisy, it’s nice to be with you in a restaurant, now that you’re eating again. Last year, I feared you’d starve yourself to death.”
“Yes. I remember you telling me so. But that’s over. We’re here to talk about Eddie Hastings. It doesn’t sound as though you have any idea who might have done him in.”
“Don’t have a clue,” Harold admitted. “But I can tell you he never would have dabbled in drugs. He was sort of a bore when he got to talking about healthy living.”
“Really?”
“Yes. For instance, he never drank alcohol even before it was prohibited. And he used to turn up his nose at people when they’d offer him cocaine.”
It wasn’t the first time my mind had boggled when Harold dropped a juicy tidbit into a conversation. “People offer each other cocaine? Where? When? No one’s ever offered me
cocaine!”
With a chuckle, Harold said, “I’m sure that’s true, Daisy. You lead a pure life.” His countenance darkened considerably. “That’s because you don’t know too many people within the moving-picture community. You wouldn’t believe the number of actors and actresses who use cocaine and heroin.”
“My goodness! I’ve read that some of them are known for heavy drinking, but . . .” I leaned as far over the table as I could without being considered crude. “Oh, Harold, who? And do you think any of them might have had anything to do with Eddie Hastings?”
“I don’t think Eddie had much to do with motion-picture folks as a rule. He was more apt to be swimming at the Pasadena Athletic Club than raising hell with the Hollywood set.”
He saw my quelling stare and capitulated. “Oh, very well. Mind you, these are all rumors, but they’re from reliable sources. Mabel Normand, for one.”
I gasped, shocked.
“And surely you read about Wallace Reid.”
“He died earlier this year.”
“Yes. In a sanitarium, into which he checked himself after finishing Thirty Days. But he was too far gone on the drugs. He died of drug use.”
“Oh, my goodness. What a tragic loss.”
“Yes, it was. Then there’s John Barrymore, but his vice is alcohol, which, of course, no law can stop him from consuming.”
“I suppose not.” The conversation had become downright depressing.
“And, of course, it was alcohol that proved to be Fatty Arbuckle’s undoing.”
“If he’d stuck to alcohol nobody’d ever know he wasn’t a gem of a man. I think it was killing that young woman that did him in.”
Harold shook an admonishing finger at me. “Arbuckle didn’t kill anyone. That’s been proved three times so far. You’re surely not going to be one of those ‘no smoke without fire’ preachers, are you?”
“Well . . . I guess not. Still, that affair seems awfully sordid to me.”
“You haven’t seen sordid until you’ve been to some of the Hollywood parties I’ve had to attend. I don’t like them, either. Unfortunately, many of the youngsters who flock to Los Angeles to become stars wind up on the wrong side of a needle.”
“That’s sad, Harold.”
The waiter approached us again, and this time Harold ordered lobster Newburg for each of us. As he walked away, I said, “But that doesn’t have anything to do with Eddie Hastings. He didn’t hang around with movie stars, you say?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Well, then, why are we talking about them?”
“You’re the one who asked,” Harold reminded me.
“You’re right. But can you think of anyone who disliked Eddie Hastings enough to murder him?”
“No.” Harold shrugged. “Except maybe his father.”
I sat up straight. “Well . . . a couple of people have mentioned that possibility before, but I haven’t taken them seriously. I know the man’s a beast, but do you really think he’d kill his own son?”
Grinning, Harold said, “How do you know the fellow’s a beast?”
“Belinda Young told me so. She was Eddie’s secretary, and she said his father was always hollering at poor Eddie at the office.”
“Figures. There’s someone whose background could bear some scrutiny.”
“Mr. Hastings, you mean?”
“The very one.”
“What do you mean by scrutiny? What would anyone be scrutinizing?”
“Well, you know he made his fortune in the Chinese trade.”
“Yes. Mrs. Hastings told me as much when I visited her at her home. It’s full of gorgeous Chinese art.”
“According to sources, the man’s been importing more than Chinese art for years now.”
I felt my eyes widen. “You mean, you think he’s smuggling drugs into the country?”
“That’s what I’ve heard. And from more than one reliable source.”
“Good Lord.” I considered the matter for several seconds. “To tell you the truth, Harold, I don’t know much about the trafficking of drugs.”
He snorted. “Don’t look at me. I wouldn’t be caught dead dealing with opium.”
“But I thought Eddie died of a heroin overdose.”
Once more rolling his eyes, which I resented, Harold said, “Heroin is derived from opium. I thought you knew that.”
“Oh. Right. I forgot.”
The waiter came back with our lobster Newburg and crispy salads, and we stopped speaking for several delicious minutes. Everything was so good.
After the first pangs of my hunger had been assuaged, I said, “Maybe Eddie found out about his father’s illicit drug dealing and called him to task for it.”
With a shrug, Harold said, “Maybe. The Eddie I knew wasn’t too keen on stirring up trouble. I can’t imagine him confronting his father about anything at all, much less accusing him of smuggling drugs.”
“Hmm. According to Belinda, they were at each other’s throats in the office all the time.”
“Maybe his father didn’t think Eddie was doing his job satisfactorily.”
“Maybe, although he’d just been made a partner.”
“Well . . . he was the grandson of the founder, and his father’s head of the firm. A partnership for the kid seems kind of like a foregone conclusion.”
“I suppose so.”
Nuts. I’d hoped to come to some sort of positive finale about the Eddie Hastings affair after speaking with Harold, but a definite perpetrator seemed as far away as Jupiter at that point. Nevertheless, I said, “Say, Harold, do you suppose you could introduce me to Lester Knowles? I’d like to talk to him about Eddie Hastings.”
“Sure. When and where would you like to meet him?”
“Shoot. I don’t know.”
“Well, maybe I can have the both of you over—and Adele, in order to even out the numbers—this coming Saturday.”
I was about to pounce on the offer when I recalled that Sam intended to take my family out to dinner at Miyaki’s on Saturday. “Pooh. Saturday we’re all dining at Miyaki’s.”
Harold’s eyes brightened. “I love Miyaki’s! Why don’t Del and I take Lester to dinner there, and we can make introductions then. Maybe you two can agree to meet sometime to discuss Eddie. It’s possible that Lester has a better idea than I as to how Eddie met his end. He sure knew him better than I did.”
“Sam will love that,” I muttered.
“What does Sam have to do with anything?”
“He’s the one who’s taking my family to Miyaki’s on Saturday.”
Harold gave me what can only be described as an evil grin. “Better and better. Perhaps we can all dine together around one of their larger tables.”
“Lord, Harold, you must be joking.”
“Am not. Sam has to be polite to me. I helped save his life a year ago, don’t forget.”
I shuddered. “How could I ever forget that?”
“I even shot a man for him.” It was Harold’s turn to shudder.
“I remember.” I chewed thoughtfully on my lobster for a moment. Then I decided, “Why not? Sam can’t object, and my family will be happy to see you and to meet Lester and Del.”
Harold eyed me speculatively. Then he said, “I imagine you’re right about that. You have a very nice family, Daisy. Hell, even Billy wasn’t all that bad once he got over being peeved about our friendship.”
“Billy was a wonderful man. It’s not his fault he held certain prejudices. I’d bet anything that if he hadn’t been so grievously wounded in the war, he wouldn’t have given a rap about you and Del.”
“Maybe you’re right. I have to tell you, though, that it’s rather disconcerting when people hate me for something I can’t help. I wouldn’t mind if they hated me because I’m an evil person or something.”
“But you’re not an evil person.”
“My point precisely.”
“A valid one, too,” I said, feeling sad.
Oh
, but it galled me that men like my darling Billy and Sam Rotondo disliked Harold merely because of the one quirk in his makeup. Take that one quirk away, and Harold was a practically perfect person: happy, friendly, helpful, personable. Charming, even.
Then it occurred to me that he might be all of those things because of that one quirk, and I decided human nature was too complicated for me to figure out over luncheon.
“So,” Harold said after taking another bite of his second or third dinner roll, “Saturday night at Miyaki’s, right?”
After a barest second of pondering, I said, “Right. We’ll probably get there around six thirty. Is that all right with you?”
“Fine with me. My Saturday is free. I don’t even have to hold Mother’s hand. I hope. She’s all cut up over Father’s defection from San Quentin, but I can’t imagine why the ghastly man should bother coming to Pasadena.”
“No. I can’t either.”
“Not,” said Harold, with a somewhat vicious twinkle in his eye, “that my mother and sister aren’t perfectly charming specimens, whom my father would probably love to see again.”
“Whoo, boy,” said I.
We both laughed, and then Harold ordered chocolate soufflés for the both of us for dessert.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
* * *
Naturally, things didn’t work out as serenely as I’d hoped they would between Thursday’s luncheon with Harold and Friday’s dinner with the Benjamins.
For one thing, as soon as Harold pulled up to the curb in front of our Marengo Avenue bungalow, my father opened the front door, Spike raced out to greet us, and Pa said, “Mrs. Pinkerton is on the wire. I told her to hold on when I heard Harold’s nifty car pull up.” He waved at Harold, who waved back as he, the perfect gentleman, exited his side of the machine and went to mine to open the door.
“Is she in a tizzy, Mr. Gumm?” Harold asked, grinning.
Pa grinned back. “Daisy will have to decide that for herself, but she wanted to wait rather than have Daisy call her back.”
As he walked me to my father, Spike frisking at our heels, Harold said, “Good luck, Daisy. Better you than me.”