But then, she told Lulu dreamily, Zing came to Hollywood. He got a plum gig at the Cocoanut Grove nightclub, playing his unique style of New Orleans jazz, and became a quick sensation. Only when he’d made enough money to buy himself a Stutz Bearcat and put a deposit down on a nice house in Echo Park, a suburb on the outskirts of Los Angeles, did he approach Honey, who was by this time an up-and-coming actress.
With her petite but decidedly curvy figure and her exotic dark eyes and hair, Honey was starting to make a name for herself playing a certain kind of character. In fact, Lulu thought, she often got the very roles that a girl like Toshia might also be trying out for—amorous concubines and proud Eastern harem girls, foreign vamps and dark seductive spies. Honey got more parts than Toshia simply because she was white. With a little makeup, though, she could pass for anything from a Tahitian islander to an Eastern princess.
“He said he hadn’t forgotten me for a minute,” Honey told Lulu, pride shining through her tears. “Everything he did, every success, he did in the hopes of winning me. I . . . I knew I shouldn’t, but I started seeing him. We kept it secret, though, even from my aunt. If anyone knew . . .”
Lulu nodded understandingly. There were many things that could derail a young actress’s career, but some of them, like drug addiction, alcoholism, or even past indiscretions, could be more easily hidden from the public. With a large portion of the country being either actively or passively racist, one published photo of Honey kissing Zing would ruin her forever.
She’d tried to break it off, but Zing followed her to the Ranch. He’d bribed someone to slip a note in her luggage as the train was leaving, asking her to meet him in the gardens that night. He’d parked his car in a hidden spot along the road and walked the last mile.
“I went outside to meet him,” Honey confessed. “What else could I do? If I didn’t show up, he might have knocked at the door and asked for me. I told him we were through, that he better just leave me alone. Then he pulled out this gorgeous diamond and platinum ring and got down on one knee, right there in the marigolds.”
Lulu looked up excitedly. That explained the dirty wet spot on his knee. Honey’s story was making sense, much to Lulu’s relief.
“What did you do?” Lulu asked.
“I started shaking and crying!” Honey said. “If I married him I’d be an outcast, and everything I’ve worked so hard for would be gone. But I didn’t want to live without him. He stood up and held me so tenderly, and I . . . I exploded! I screamed at him to leave, slapped him, scratched him . . . and he said he’d never let me go. I told him my heart was breaking, that he was killing me, and he just looked at me with fire in those kind, sweet eyes, so stubborn. So strong. He wasn’t going to take no for an answer.”
Lulu felt a surge of elation. So that was the conversation Kitty had overheard. Not the murderer and his victim at all. That meant the other maid Ginnie had probably heard an entirely different argument—most likely involving the actual murderer.
“I have to tell Freddie and Mr. Waters . . . and the police,” Lulu said.
Honey grabbed her hand again. “But you can’t!” she gasped. “You promised!”
Lulu closed her eyes for a moment, cursing herself for her rash promise. But did a promise really count when a man’s freedom was on the line? When the truth meant a murderer was still on the loose? And yet her sense of loyalty told her not to break a promise to a trusting girl.
“Honey, if you love him, how can you let him go to jail?” Lulu asked in a firm but gentle voice. “Everyone thinks he killed Juliette, and they’re ready to throw the book at him. How can you live with yourself if he’s imprisoned, or gets the firing squad, because you won’t tell the truth?”
“I couldn’t live with myself, of course!” Honey said miserably. “I’m destroyed either way. If he’s charged, I’ll just die. And if he’s let go because everyone knows the truth, I’m done for!”
“Maybe it’s not as bad as you think,” Lulu told her. “After all, no one ever said you have to tell the whole truth. What if you just said Zing has a mad crush on you, and even though you offered no encouragement, he came to propose. That would keep him in the clear but wouldn’t tarnish your name. I could tell Mr. Hearst what really happened, just so he wouldn’t lay trespassing charges on Zing, but no one else would know.”
Honey shook her head, her lower lip trembling. “It won’t work.”
“Sure it will!” Lulu said, doing her best to throw cheerful enthusiasm into her voice. “Why, I guarantee it won’t even make the papers. Certainly none owned by our host! Hearst hates any publicity he didn’t orchestrate himself. Trust me, Honey, this will work. Your reputation will be safe, and Zing will go free.”
“You don’t understand, Lulu,” Honey wept. “There’s more at stake here than you know.”
“What I know is that there’s a murderer on the loose because they have the wrong man locked up,” Lulu pressed, her temper fraying. “What if another girl dies because you won’t tell the truth?”
Honey looked aghast at the thought, then covered her face with her hands, saying, “No, no, no! I can’t! This can’t be happening!”
“Honey, you’ve got to tell me what you’re hiding or I can’t help you,” Lulu insisted.
“An actress might get away with having a colored man in love with her,” Honey sobbed softly. “But we both know she couldn’t get away with being colored herself.”
Lulu exhaled slowly, understanding now what Honey was saying.
She told Lulu the whole story.
Honey was the illegitimate child of a white man and a light-skinned black woman from the Louisiana bayou. Her mother had died giving birth to her, and Honey had been raised until she was ten in her mother’s community in Cajun country by a clan of loving aunts and grandparents. She saw her father only a few times, but he made sure she was taken care of financially. When her father died, he specified in his will that Honey should live with his family in New Orleans. She was taken away from the home she loved to live with one of her father’s sisters.
It was then that the little girl learned to “pass.”
Her new family was unfailingly kind to her, Honey made sure to point out. They just didn’t want her to be black.
Her skin was creamy tan and her features delicate. Her hair was wild and curly, but her white aunts went out of state to consult specialists, and the end result was straight and silky. They gave Honey elocution lessons and began talking loudly in the beauty salons and other local gossip hubs about a Spanish contessa their late brother had been involved with. Once all the groundwork was laid, they presented charming little Honey, and the world believed she had aristocratic Spanish blood.
It worked well for a while. But Honey’s black relatives refused to entirely give her up, and insisted on visiting. When this was forbidden, Honey started to sneak out, visiting her mother’s family, absorbing the culture of her childhood, and eventually, as a teen, going to all-black jazz clubs. It was there she met Zing.
When her father’s people found out, they were furious. They sent her to a distant family member in California where she had no connections, to try to wean her off her past. She was beautiful and exotic-looking—and accustomed to pretending to be someone she was not—and so Honey soon landed movie roles.
But she never forgot where she came from. And Zing never forgot her.
All the same, she’d been so bullied and threatened and shamed over the past years about the absolute necessity of keeping her race a secret that she was convinced utterly she couldn’t live if the truth came out.
“You can’t tell anyone,” Honey insisted again. “You promised me.”
But still it tormented Lulu: How much did a promise count when weighed against murder?
Though she knew it was wrong, Lulu found she couldn’t betray Honey’s confidence. “I won’t tell the police,” she said. “At least, not yet. Zing hasn’t said anything, as far as I know. But he’ll most likely start telling the trut
h soon.”
“No, he won’t,” Honey said with absolute confidence in her man. “He’ll do anything to protect me.”
“Maybe at first,” Lulu admitted, “but not when they start talking about the noose. No. The only way to save him without condemning yourself is if we find out who the real murderer is. When we have him, they’ll let Zing go without asking too many questions.”
“Then find the murderer! Please!” Honey begged.
“I will,” Lulu answered with grim determination. “But for that I need help. I have to tell your secret to one person, Honey.”
“No!”
“Don’t worry. He’s good at keeping secrets.”
And with that, she left Honey weeping gently and went to find Freddie.
“We have to tell the police,” Freddie said in an infuriatingly rational voice.
“It isn’t our secret to tell,” Lulu said quietly and firmly. “If we have to, eventually, then okay. But for now I think we can find the real murderer and clear Zing’s name on our own.”
“Darling, we’ll find the truth much faster if there are more people working on it. Doesn’t it make you nervous to know there’s a murderer still at large, and most likely it’s one of the guests?”
“Yes . . . and no,” Lulu said. “When I was in that crime thriller The Life and Death of Willa Langley, the director brought in a psycho-thingamajig to tell us about killers and their minds. He said that most murders are personal. I mean, a killer murders a specific person for a particular reason. Either because he hates them, or loves them, or maybe both, or wants to cover up something else entirely. He said that the real maniacs—I mean the ones who kill because they actually like to kill—are extremely rare.”
Freddie agreed. “And what’s more, now that the real murderer thinks he’s safe—”
Lulu interrupted him. “He or she is safe.”
Freddie raised his eyebrows. “Really? You think it might be a woman?”
“Probably not, but don’t underestimate us. There are twenty—er, nineteen—smart and highly competitive women trapped in a house with a once-in-a-lifetime prize dangling in front of our noses. One of us might very well be willing to kill for it.”
“I don’t know whether to be awed or afraid,” Freddie said with a nervous chuckle. “Okay, granted that women are just as capable of anything, including murder, as men . . .”
“Thank you.”
“. . . whoever it is might be easier to catch as long as Zing is in custody. They think they’re home free, so they might get careless.”
“We can catch him—or her! I’m sure of it!” Lulu said excitedly.
“I’ll give it a little while. Not too long, though. Then we go to the police.”
“Deal,” she said, shaking his hand. He didn’t let it go, but pulled her closer.
“We have to go to the Assembly Room for cocktails,” she murmured when she emerged from his kiss a moment later.
“Definitely,” Freddie agreed. “Soon.”
When she finally entered the Assembly Room (discreetly separate from Freddie), she waved away the offered drink. She felt tipsy enough on love without needing alcohol. In fact, she felt so good she scarcely even noticed that Sal and Dolores were canoodling all night. And if she noticed, she certainly didn’t care. Much.
Lulu and Freddie made little headway that evening. Hearst had activities scheduled for his guests through midnight, and they could never escape. Engaged in games of darts, pool, and other assorted diversions, each tried to subtly ask questions about other guests’ whereabouts the previous evening, but couldn’t come up with anything particularly incriminating.
After dinner but before dessert, Hearst stood and said, “I have a very important announcement.” Lulu looked up with eager eyes, hoping it was going to be about the murder. Had Hearst or the police found new evidence?
But it only obliquely concerned Juliette. Hearst was imperiously announcing which actresses were being sent home that night.
“Many of you have shown sterling character. Others have amused and entertained us, or shown your sweet dispositions. But a few of you have sadly disappointed us. Gloria Baker, please stand.”
Lulu heard gasps, titters, a few murmured words of sympathy. But what she noticed most was that all the girls sitting near Gloria seemed to subtly lean away from her. They wanted to distance themselves from her immediately.
Gloria rose with a stricken face. She pulled herself together enough to ask defensively, “What did I do wrong?”
Hearst narrowed his small blue eyes at Gloria, and she quailed under the sternness of his gaze. “An actress may steal hearts, but not jewelry,” he said. “You may keep the watch you pilfered as a consolation prize.”
“I never!” Gloria began as the room erupted into shocked murmuring, but Hearst quieted everyone with a look.
“Though you may be disappointed to learn the diamonds are fake. Please leave now, Miss Baker. The butler will escort you to the door, where you’ll find your bags already packed and waiting. I do hope you also enjoy the stolen decorative soaps that were found in your suitcase.”
She was instantly ushered out without any further chance to defend herself.
“What a shame,” Boots said to Lulu across Paul Raleigh as Gloria left. “And before dessert, too.” She winked at Lulu.
The strawberry mousse was served, and conversation was just starting to build back up to its normal cacophony when Lolly piped up. “I thought there were supposed to be two girls eliminated each night. Who’s the other one? I’m dying to know—and I bet she is too.”
The room fell silent, and people looked at Lolly with shocked faces.
Lolly looked baffled. “What’s wrong? What did I say?”
Ten
The next morning, Lulu and Freddie went to the housekeeper’s quarters to talk to their only real witness. Mrs. Mortimer was elsewhere. Ginnie, sleepy-eyed, was sitting in one corner of the spacious kitchen, sewing the torn shoulder seam of a woman’s black dress. Her dark curls were delightfully tumbled, and she dimpled and perked up the instant she spied Freddie.
“I heard you had a rough night,” Lulu said sympathetically as she slid into a chair next to Ginnie. “Here, let me do that for you.” She settled the large dress on her lap and took up the neat, precise stitches where Ginnie left off. It was a simple dress, but made of soft black wool, and the tailoring was impeccable. Lulu’s practiced washerwoman eye noted the fine details as she sewed, and she absently wondered whose dress it was. Not one of the actresses. They were all much too slender for this dress, and despite the exquisite cut, it was far too simple for any of them.
“You know how to sew?” the girl asked. “But you’re a movie star!”
“Well, I’m not sure about that, but I’m trying!” Lulu smiled. “And I wasn’t born one, you know.” She often thought, with no small amount of amazement, that only one year ago she was helping her mother launder underthings for a living.
“Gosh,” Ginnie said. “Then there’s still hope for me. I want to be an actress more than anything. Are you an actor, too?” she asked Freddie as he lounged against the icebox.
“Not quite,” he said with a wink.
“You’re sure handsome enough to be one,” Ginnie said, lifting her eyes up to him dreamily.
Lulu rolled hers, unseen by Ginnie, as Freddie charmingly grinned and played the handsome but modest boy next door, wiggling his eyebrows at Lulu when Ginnie looked away blushing.
“We wanted to ask you about what you heard the other night in the garden,” Freddie said. Lulu bent her head to her sewing and let him take the reins, knowing full well that Ginnie would be much more likely to spill the beans to the cute, flirtatious boy. Girls are so predictable, she thought with a sigh.
“Well,” Ginnie said, settling herself back to tell her tale, “I was taking the refuse out at around seven thirty or so, and I heard a terrible noise. A beast of some sort, I thought to myself, or something, well, something big. . . .”<
br />
“And you never saw it?”
“It was moving around in the bushes. Scared the bejesus out of me. It could have been anything! Once the lion got out and no one dared go outside for a week afterward, you know.”
“Lion . . . ,” Freddie murmured slowly.
“I dumped the trash as quick as I could and started to go back in. That’s when I heard the argument.”
It was a man and a woman behind some closely planted cypresses, Ginnie told them. The man growled, “How dare you? You’ll pay for this. You’re through!” Then the woman said piteously, “No! You can’t do this to me! Stop!” The man said, “Just watch me, you . . .”
“You what?” Freddie asked, shooting a look at Lulu, who just looked at him dryly and continued to stitch.
“I can’t say it out loud. It’s too filthy.”
“Can you whisper it?” he asked. Ginnie seemed delighted, and stayed nestled against Freddie’s cheek for far longer than it could have taken to say one dirty word. She could practically recite a sonnet, Lulu thought, suppressing a sigh. But if he could tolerate the string of men who pursued her, she could endure the inept advances of an ambitious housemaid.
“ ‘Take that,’ the man said,” Ginnie continued boldly, as if she were auditioning. “Then he must have attacked her, because I heard her shriek, just once, and then I didn’t hear anything else.”
“Did you tell anyone?” Freddie asked.
“I looked for Mrs. Mortimer, but she wasn’t to be found. Which is strange. She usually goes over the accounts in the evening when the guests are all busy in the Assembly Room or at dinner. So I didn’t mention it to her until much later.”
“Why didn’t you tell someone else right away?” Lulu asked.
Ginnie shot her a resentful look. “I wouldn’t want anyone mucking around in my business,” she said. “And I surely didn’t know anyone was being murdered.”
“Fair enough,” Freddie said, suppressing a smile.
“Do you remember anything else? What did their voices sound like? Did either of them have an accent?” Lulu interrupted, finally putting down her mending.
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