Death Was in the Picture

by Linda L. Richards

  “Don’t know, Dex. Takes a while to work up to that many cats.”

  “Could be that’s why they’re still married,” Dex said in a way that made me realize he was thinking it all through for the first time as it came out of his mouth.

  “Why?”

  “Maybe it’s what it always was. She needed … I dunno … protection, maybe? From the world …”

  I saw where this was going. “And maybe he did too?”

  Dex nodded as he drove. “A wife would save him a lot of scrutiny.”

  “And not everyone would have been happy about all those cats.”

  “You got that right, sister. Five minutes in that house and I felt like they were sizing me up for a hot meal.”

  “Now what?” I said.

  “Now we go back to the office and pick up where we left off: try to find someone who knows something about what’s happened to our boy.”

  “But you don’t think the wife had anything to do with it?” I pressed.

  “I don’t think she could do the crossword if it was already filled in.”

  “So I’m back on the phone this afternoon.”

  “Yeah. That and I want you to find Rhoda Darrow.”

  “Who?”

  “The woman who tangoed me around at the party.”

  “What do I need to find her for?”

  “Well, lots of reasons. Xander Dean hired her, for one. So it would be good to know what was in his head when he did it.”

  “How am I gonna find her?” I asked, honestly perplexed.

  “You’re going to detect.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Listen buddy,” I said, “that’s your job. I just answer the phones and type up fake letters to nobody.”

  He looked at me sitting next to him in the car and grinned. “Yeah. And I’m sure they appreciate it.”

  “Well, if you suddenly need an assistant, maybe you oughta hire one of those,” I suggested.

  “Like a junior detective?” Dex asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “Like that.”

  “Yeah, I could do that, couldn’t I?”

  “You could.”

  “But let me tell you something,” he said with a smirk.

  “What?”

  “You come cheaper.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  FIND RHODA DARROW he’d said, making it sound easy. Like finding a good pastrami or a place to see a movie. In reality, though, we were back to needle in haystack time. All I had was a name that both Dex and I realized might or might not be real. And I had a description, through the observant but not entirely unjaundiced eye of my boss.

  I thought Dex would tell me how to detect, but he just dropped me off and swanned away, which I supposed was how I was getting stuck with this assignment in the first place. Many hands make the load lighter, so they say. My hands just didn’t have any actual experience doing this sort of thing.

  “You’re a smart girl,” Dex said when I tried to stop him. “You’ll figure something out. Can’t be any harder than me figuring out how to make a cuppa joe, right?”

  He was right: I am a smart girl, but I know there are easy ways to go about things and there are hard ones. Sometimes the only way to tell the difference is by having someone tell you which is what, but Dex didn’t seem in the mood for that. Not today.

  After Dex dropped me at the office, I had the little lunch Marjorie had packed for me in the morning. While I ate my kipper and brown butter sandwich, I thought about all those mixed up files again. Then, after lunch, I got to work on finding Darrow, because clearly the filing was going to be even less fun.

  Anyone watching the first fifteen minutes or so of my search wouldn’t have thought I was doing very much at all. I just sat quietly at my desk thinking about the little I knew about Rhoda Darrow—and where would be a good place to start looking. Finally I looked in the book for the number of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, where Wyndham was under contract. Then I called them up. It seemed like as good a place as any to start.

  When I got the switchboard, I asked if an actress named Rhoda Darrow was on their roster. The switchboard patched me over to the publicity department and when I said her name, they said they knew who she was. She had been under contract a couple of years before but now she was not. Did they know what had become of her? They did not. Did they know where she lived? No, but the nice woman I spoke to at MGM publicity went away to check their files. When she came back, she told me that Rhoda Darrow was represented by Wally Garris at the William Morris Agency, did I want that number?

  I did.

  Garris was apparently not available to anyone calling regarding Miss Darrow. I waited another hour, then tried again. The secretary was sharp. Sharper than I was about these things, I suspected, though I figured maybe she had more reason to be.

  She recognized my voice right away.

  “Listen,” she instructed, “I’m done talking to you about Rhoda Darrow, see?”

  “But,” I pointed out helpfully, “you haven’t told me anything at all.”

  “Right. And that’s what I’m done telling you. Don’t let me hear you on this phone again.” With that she slammed the receiver down so hard, I imagined it rocking in its cradle.

  Her instructions had been explicit—”Don’t call here again.” I had no intention of doing so, either. Instead, I decided it was important enough and the office was quiet enough that I’d get me some air.

  Grabbing my handbag, a light coat and my hat, I locked the office and set off for the subway station, just a few blocks away on Hill Street. I risked the ire of the ticket taker in the grand lobby by asking for a receipt. But I reasoned that this wasn’t going to be a pleasure ride. It was business, after all. Dex could pay me back. If he was going to make me detect, he could darn well give me my expenses, too.

  I went down a series of stairways and ramps to catch the Hollywood train. I sat on a bench while I waited, thinking carefully about what I’d do when I got where I was going. I had a destination, I realized, but I didn’t have much of a plan.

  It was mid-afternoon when I boarded and the train was mercifully uncrowded. A light smattering of businessmen, no doubt headed out to appointments, shoppers on their way back home, laden with packages and tired satisfaction. A harried young mother traveled with two small children—one firmly attached to each hand. The smaller of the two, a little girl, coughed violently while her mother patted her back, wiped her spittle and looked concerned. I felt bad when I seated myself at the very back of the car, as far from this little family as I could.

  When we got underway, I didn’t pay any attention to the series of bells or the clacking of the tracks under us as we changed from one set to another. I knew that the two were related—the bells, the clacking, the destination—but I didn’t know how and I figured there are some things in life one just doesn’t need to know.

  Before long—perhaps only a mile and after what felt like only a slight ascent—we emerged from the darkness of the subway into a visual cacophony of light and wires and the general melee that was Toluca Yard, where the extra trams were kept and, I imagine, other various bits and bolts needed to keep the whole complicated electric car system running.

  I got off at Hollywood and Vine. A half dozen people got off with me. Not all of them were headed for the Equitable Trust Building, but a clump of us trooped into it together. That suited me just fine since entering the imposing structure on my own would have been a bit nerve-wracking, especially considering my mission.

  The lobby was big, shiny and impressive. I know that it cannot have been marble from floor to ceiling, but that was the impression I was left with: acres of marble worked to a finish so fine, the surface reflected my face back at me with all the authority of a mirror.

  There was a building directory in one corner of the marble-festooned lobby. It indicated that the offices of the William Morris Agency were on the eighth floor. The elevator was swift and new and smooth and if either the elevator or its operator smelled of anything but
clean I could not detect it.

  On the eighth floor, the operator directed me to follow the hallway all the way to the left where, just as advised, I found a door marked with the name and trademark of the agency. It was a big operation, one of the most important of its kind. I had a tough time reconciling what Dex had told me about Rhoda Darrow and the name and reputation of the best-known talent agency in the business.

  At least, that’s what I thought when I stood in the hallway. Inside the office itself, I changed my tune. The William Morris Agency didn’t look greatly different from Dex’s operation. Oh sure: it was bigger, more bustling and a lot more was going on. But there was no more opulence than Dex and I enjoyed and no one was just sitting around on their keisters eating bon-bons and shooting the breeze. I got the feeling that you had to work with a lot of Rhoda Darrows before you hit a payday like Laird Wyndham or Lorena Duvall. At a certain level, then, like so many others, the movie business was a numbers game.

  “How can I help you?” the receptionist said brightly as I entered. I was encouraged.

  “I’m here to see Wally Garris,” I said.

  “Is he expecting you?” she asked, pulling her appointment book toward her as she spoke. I knew the move. I always did it that way myself. Thing was, there were probably actual appointments listed in the Morris Agency’s book. Dex’s tended to be as empty as a Sunday school teacher’s bank account.

  “No,” I said. “I just thought I’d pop in and see if he was around.”

  She pushed the book back to its place thoughtfully. I could almost hear the réévaluation going on in her head. She pulled her sweater closer to herself protectively while pushing a doubtful eye over me. There was no part of me that looked like a glamour puss and I fit into that reception area the way a bear fits into a dinner party.

  “Are you one of his clients?” she asked at length.

  I shook my head.

  “I see. Can I tell him what it’s about?”

  I thought about it quickly, then shook my head again. Mentioning Rhoda Darrow’s name on the telephone hadn’t brought me any traction, I had no reason to think it would be different now.

  “What have you done?” she asked, pulling a form toward her from the other side of the desk. I could see she was prepared to put together some sort of resume on me. That wouldn’t get me an interview with Mr. Garris. My theatrical resume wasn’t very impressive, unless you counted my Desdemona in the senior girls’ production of Othello my last year at Mrs. Beeson’s School.

  “I’m afraid I haven’t done much of anything.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, but I could tell that she was not. “I’m trying to help you here, but you really have to do something to help yourself.”

  “Look,” I said, “I just want to see Mr. Garris. On a personal matter.”

  The young woman sat back in her chair with an exasperated look on her face. “Unless you tell me what it’s about, you will not get in to see him.”

  “It’s just that… well, I called and … I wanted to talk to him about one of his clients. Rhoda Darrow?”

  “That’s not exactly a personal matter, is it?” she said coldly. I could see the last vestiges of the gentility she saved for real clients falling off her in chunks.

  “Well,” I said, kind of hemming, “I do want to see him. Personally,” I said with a haw. “If Mr. Garris could just give me a few minutes of his time …”

  She drew herself to her full sitting height in order to look down her nose at me. The pose looked most uncomfortable. “Have you any idea how valuable Mr. Garris’s time is?” she said, clearly understanding that I did not. “If he just gave it away …” She let her voice trail off tantalizingly, leaving me to guess what calamities might be possible if such a thing should happen.

  “Look, if you would just ask Mr. Garris if he would see me.”

  She looked at me as though astonished that I was still standing there, still breathing her air. “Close your head and pipe this, sister,” she said, all of the veneer cracked away by now. An intercom buzzed and she ignored it in order to finish her tirade, “Mr. Garris will not see you, we do not have time for whatever it is you’re selling, we—” The intercom buzzed again and she broke off with an exasperated gulp and picked it up.

  “Yes, Mr. Morris,” she said. “Of course. I’m sorry. Right away.”

  She hung up the phone, looking distracted. She grabbed her steno pad and got up, at which point she seemed to notice me, still standing in front of her desk.

  “You’re still here,” she said without patience.

  I nodded.

  “Scram,” she barked at me, backing me toward the door. I let her push me out into the hallway and watched as she closed the office door in my face. The bum’s rush, I thought to myself dully. This is what it feels like. It was a new one on me.

  I stood there, in the hallway, my heart pounding, and counted thirty. Then I counted another ten. When I was done, I opened the office door a crack and peeked inside. There was no sign of the secretary. There was no sign of anyone at all.

  I entered the office again and stood in front of her desk for a heartbeat. Maybe two. I had no idea how long she’d be gone. On the other hand, I’d seen her leave with her steno pad after Mr. Morris’s call. It seemed likely she was off somewhere taking dictation. Clearly, I had an opportunity. Just what I was to do with it was less clear.

  Instinct guided me, I think, because I had no clear plan. Mindful that someone could come at any moment, I moved to the long row of filing cabinets lining one wall. “Darrow” was in the D’s, just where you’d expect. I did not think things through, but I knew what I was doing. Whatever was going on with Rhoda Darrow, she no longer had the support of her agency, that much was clear. I thought about just peeking inside and getting Darrow’s most recent address, which was what I’d hoped to find here. But, in the end some gremlin guided me to double the whole file up and stuff it into my purse. The handbag was really too small for this additional cargo, but I shoved the file around until no bits of paper poked out to give me away.

  Back on the street I looked straight up, beyond the buildings on one side and the construction on the other. I looked straight up at a fat gray cloud scudding across a pale blue sky and said a quick prayer to the god of small things. The Broadway-Hollywood was catty-corner to the Equitable Building. I decided that what was needed was the department store’s tea house. It would provide a place to take a load off while I looked over my spoils.

  My heart settled into an easier patter once I sat at a wood veneered table with a cup of tea and a tiny crustless sandwich in front of me. Before I brought the file out of my purse, I checked over both shoulders and all around to see if anyone seemed intent on observing my movements. I don’t know why. I had no reason to think so.

  Reassured that no furtive watchers were watching, I reached into my purse and pulled out the file. There she was: Rhoda Darrow. The studio photograph in my hand showed a beautiful young woman with a creamy complexion and a shy, white smile. The photo was undated, but her clothes and the hat she wore told me it was at least ten years old: the girl in this photo was a jazz baby, plain and simple.

  In addition to the photo in the file, there were a few contracts, but nothing more recent than 1927. Apparently Miss Darrow had been another sacrifice to the gods of sound. She’d never worked in a talkie. Not, at any rate, while Garris was her agent.

  The only other thing in the folder was her personal file. Her date of birth—it indicated that she had been born in 1898, which would have made her roughly 33. But I knew that might or might not be true—her measurements, her next of kin, her doctor, her address: all the information that your proxy in the entertainment world would need to know about you in order to do business on your behalf. Only Garris hadn’t been doing much business for her of late, or so it seemed.

  I realized as I sat there, sipping my tea, that the home address on Ivar Avenue listed in Rhoda Darrow’s file was not far from where I now sat. I lif
ted my head and looked more closely at the faces of the shoppers resting near me. Based on how close that address was, the tea house at the Broadway-Hollywood would not be an unthinkable place for Darrow to take a meal. If she was there, however, I couldn’t detect her amid the aging dowagers and wives of young swells. I decided to finish my tea and sandwich and hit the bricks.

  The day was cool but not crisp. I looked at the address again, only three, maybe four blocks out of my way. I decided to walk there, then catch up with the Red Car again down the line, closer to downtown.

  The apartment house was fairly new. It appeared to have been built in the mid-twenties at the very latest and sported the quasi-opulence associated with that optimistic time. Everyone could be wealthy and if not, everyone should live that way, with marble floors and ornate fireplaces—in Los Angeles often beautiful but strictly ornamental. Carved angels and gargoyles guarded such homes and other signs of apparent wealth associated with the grand of other ages.

  This is what I wonder: Had the stock market not crashed in 1929, where would it have gone? Because, for a time leading up to 1929, money seemed to breed; seemed to grow unaided. If you had a pile, all you had to do was spend all night dancing and drinking with your friends, and in the morning you’d be worth more than when you went to bed. As a result—at least, this is what I think—the houses grew ever grander, the accoutrements more opulent and impressive, the skyscrapers higher, the engineering more delicately wrought. There seemed to be no end.

  At the time of the crash, there was a lot of construction going on. Buildings all over town—and all over the country, I guess—were going up that had been conceived and designed to be the biggest and best ever. With the crash everyone’s expectations had to change overnight. If they did not know it—if they denied it for a time, as many did—then they knew it within a few weeks or months. Things just were not the same. Many of these buildings and houses and other types of construction that had been going on at the time of the crash were reconsidered. Some that hadn’t gotten very far stopped altogether, abandoned, never to be completed. But others that were well underway were reimagined with a sensibility more appropriate to the time. We were beginning to see what I suspected would be the design of a new era: a more Spartan look.More conservative. The wild imaginings of the jazz age—the sky’s the limit, forget the cost—were relics. New realities affected every aspect of our lives.