“I want to meet this Mr. Templeton of yours,” Chloe announced when I descended the staircase to wait for Ernie in the living room.
“He’s not my Mr. Templeton, but you can certainly meet him.”
“Huh.”
He rang the bell promptly at eight. I’d been poised to answer the door, because I didn’t want him to think we in the Nash household were a bunch of snobs, but Mrs. Biddle beat me to it. I was right behind her. I know I blinked when I saw him.
“You’re all dressed up!” I cried, and then felt stupid. But he looked very handsome in his black evening suit. We’d look quite well together, I decided.
“So are you,” he said, frowning at me.
“I guess you’re expected,” grumbled Mrs. Biddle, and she stepped aside to allow Ernie into the foyer. It was a lovely foyer, with a floor covered in Spanish tiles and lots of pretty house plants that got plenty of sunlight from the big windows on either side of the double door.
Ernie looked around, a bland expression on his face. “Nice place.”
“Yes. My sister and her husband, you know.”
“Yeah. Nash. Isn’t that their last name?”
“Yes.”
He was holding his hat, which was polite of him. I hadn’t known what to expect of him. In the office, he was relaxed to a fault, but I guess he could use good manners when he had to. “Say, your brother-in-law wouldn’t be Harvey Nash, would he? The movie guy?”
Drat! I was hoping he wouldn’t have made the connection. However, Harvey’s profession didn’t have anything to do with me, so I owned up to it. “Yes. Come into the living room and meet my sister, Ernie. She’s been dying to meet you.”
“Yeah?” He didn’t believe me.
Undaunted by his doubt, I said, “Follow me,” and led him into the living room. Chloe sat in a chair by the fireplace (in which no fire burned, this being July and all). She glanced up, then rose. I could tell she was favorably impressed by Ernie’s looks. She sauntered over to us. “You must be the Mr. Templeton Mercy is always talking about.” She held out her hand for Ernie to take, which he did.
“I’m not always talking about him,” I said with some heat. “I’m always talking about my job. There’s a big difference.”
A flicker of his usual wicked grin passed across his face before he turned it into a normal, everyday smile. He didn’t respond to Chloe’s comment. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Nash.”
“Where are you taking my sister, Mr. Templeton? She wouldn’t tell me. She only said it had something to do with blackmail. That’s a bit worrying to Harvey and me.”
“She didn’t tell you the name?” Ernie glanced at me with what looked like absolute approval, although I wasn’t sure, since I’d never seen that expression on his face. And I’d certainly never expected it to be directed at me.
“No. My kid sister is the soul of discretion.” Chloe gave me a sardonic smile. “But I’d feel better about this evening’s jaunt if I knew where she was going.”
“It’ll be all right, Mrs. Nash. There’s no danger involved. We’re only going to be attending a small party on Sunset Boulevard.”
“Sunset. My, my.”
“Chloe,” I said, irked, “I’m a grown-up now, remember. I’ll be fine. Ernie will take care of me.”
“Oh, Ernie will, will he?” Her artfully penciled eyebrows arched over her pretty blue eyes. I guess she was surprised to discover that Ernie and I were on a first-name basis, but she shouldn’t have been. I’d told her before that evening that Ernie was a very unceremonious individual. On the other hand, perhaps her incredulity was directed more toward what she perceived as my stuffiness than Ernie’s easiness. Nuts. I’ve always gotten along well with Chloe, and I love her dearly, but she did have a very prudish mental image of me, and I don’t believe I deserved it.
Ignoring her barbed comment, I said, “Let’s be off, Ernie.” I turned to Chloe. “You don’t need to wait up for me.”
“We aren’t going to be late,” Ernie said.
“Oh, it’s not a problem,” said Chloe. By which, I knew she meant that she would wait up for me, and that nothing I could say would make her alter her intention.
Sometimes it’s difficult being the youngest member of the family.
* * * * *
Mr. Fortescue’s house was truly fabulous. Sunset Boulevard twists and twines around a woodsy area of Los Angeles. All we could see was foliage for the most part, but every now and then an elaborate gate would loom up from the shrubbery. At one point Ernie turned the Studebaker onto what looked like a side road, but which was, in reality, a private drive that ended at another enormous wrought-iron gate with scrollwork and all over it.
“Fortescue’s,” he said.
“Good heavens,” I said.
“Blackmail pays.”
“I guess so.”
A uniformed guard appeared at Ernie’s window, which he rolled down. “Templeton,” he told the guard.
“Yes, sir.” The guard held a clipboard, and he looked at it, probably searching for Ernie’s name. He must have found it, because he stepped back, pressed a button, the gate started sliding open, and he said, “Thank you, sir.”
“Sure thing.” And Ernie drove through the parted gates.
While Sunset Boulevard had been dark, with very few street lamps aglow, Mr. Fortescue’s yard was as bright as day. Actually, yard is too puny a word to describe the lavish spectacle into which Ernie drove. Park is more like it. Ernie turned toward the left, and drew up before two more uniforms, these being worn by young men. As I sat in the car and waited, Ernie got out, handed his keys to one of the attendants (who looked upon the Studebaker with barely concealed contempt), and then came around to my side and opened the door.
“Let’s go, kiddo.”
So, with a swirl of my black cape to give me courage, I took Ernie’s arm, and we walked along a path lined by trellises dripping with roses and overhung with Chinese lanterns. It was a very impressive display. I thought I’d mention to Chloe how beautiful the roses were. I thought the lanterns were a trifle excessive to be considered tasteful. Then again, according to my mother, the words tasteful and Los Angeles should never be used in a sentence together. She’s prejudiced, however.
All the females employed by Mr. Fortescue wore tidy black uniforms with black caps, white aprons, white stockings, and black shoes. These liveried ladies stuck out against the ruby red of the interior walls like zebras swimming in tomato soup. And the chandeliers! Well, let me just say that the chandeliers were remarkable. Totally tasteless, and absolutely jangling with crystal hangy things. I can’t remember what they’re called.
Surprisingly, at least to me, was the fact that we were met in the huge black-and-white tiled entryway by a perfectly precious, and very tiny, black French poodle. It danced across the tiles with a tippity-tap of little doggie claws and slid to a stop before us, wagging its poofy tail and yipping. Its bark reminded me of the sound a baby’s rubber toy will make when squeezed.
I’ve always been very fond of dogs, and I knelt to greet this one with at least as much enthusiasm as it met us with, although I refrained from yipping. “Hello there,” said I, enchanted.
Its tail wagged harder, and I picked up the dog, heedless of dog hair on my new frock (truthfully, I’d been told by Mr. Easthope, who owns two of them, that poodles don’t shed). As I did so, I noticed a butler standing there, impassively watching me.
“May I take your wrap, Madam?”
“Certainly. What’s the doggie’s name?” I unhooked my cape, and Ernie caught it before it hit the floor. He handed it to the butler with a frown for me. The puppy licked my cheek, and I laughed with delight.
“Rosie, Madam.” If he’d told me he was going to shoot the dog in the morning, he couldn’t have sounded more gloomy. Perhaps Rosie wasn’t the enchanting creature I thought she was. More likely, the butler was an old grump.
“What a charming name for a charming dog.”
“Bingo,” mutt
ered Ernie, for a reason I was to learn shortly. He scratched the poodle behind the ear and said, “Cheers, Rosie.”
I guess because I grew up in a well-to-do family that entertained a lot, I’ve never been shy about attending parties or other social occasions where I didn’t know many people. It didn’t embarrass me in the least to carry Rosie into the huge room in which the main party was going on. As Ernie led the way, I whispered at him, “Why’d you say ‘bingo’?”
He whispered back, “You wanted to know what Mrs. Von Schilling’s property is that Mr. Fortescue has and that she wants back, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“You’re holding it.”
My gaze flew to Rosie, who was perched in my arms and watching all the people gathered in the front room with sparklingly alert brown eyes. “Oh!”
“Right. I don’t suppose your handbag is big enough to hold her.”
He was probably joking, but his comment gave me an idea. “No, but perhaps I can arrange something else.”
“Eh?” He eyed me, startled, but I didn’t respond because we were among the throng by that time.
It was certainly a glittering ensemble. I’d never seen so many famous people all gathered in one place, although Chloe and Harvey had invited their share of picture people to dinner several times. I nearly fainted when I saw Douglas Fairbanks chatting with a couple of women, one of whom looked like Vilma Bankey. While it’s true I grew up with money, even rich girls get a thrill when they see famous people who have made their hearts go soft and mushy in the flickers. Theda Bara, dressed in a black dress infinitely slinkier than mine, slouched against a fireplace on the far wall, holding a cigarette in a long, black holder. Smoke wafted from her cigarette, and she looked bored—or perhaps she was only trying to look bored. Whatever her intent, she looked terribly glamorous and mysterious. Not unlike Mrs. Von Schilling, in actual fact.
Ernie nudged me with his elbow. When I glanced up at him, he leaned over and whispered, “Look over there. It’s John Barrymore. I understand he’s starring in Don Juan for the Warner brothers, and it’s going to have sound.”
I stared at him, hugging Rosie the while. “You mean, a picture will actually talk?”
“So they say. It’ll be interesting to see if we can understand what they’re saying.”
“I always thought the cameras were too loud to permit talking.”
“Guess not. Say, there’s one of the Warner brothers right there.” He indicated a gentleman talking to John Barrymore, whose eyes were half closed and whom, I regret to say, looked rather the worse for drink.
“Do you know him?”
“Naw. I’ve only met a few of the bright lights in the flickers.”
I spotted someone else. “Oh, my goodness, is that Rudolph Valentino?” I almost dropped Rosie, I was so amazed.
“Looks like it from here. But say, I’ve got to talk to our genial host. Want to meet him?”
I thought about it as I petted Rosie. “I don’t believe so, thank you. I think I’ll mingle a bit.” I was good at mingling. Having money might not be all it’s cracked up to be, but it does give one confidence. For the most part. I suppose there are some wealthy people in the world who wouldn’t feel comfortable at a party where they didn’t know anyone, but I didn’t suffer from that problem.
Although I had formulated what I considered a brilliant scheme and was eager to put it to the test, I waited until I saw Ernie approach a heavy-set man with a pencil-thin black moustache and perfectly elegant evening clothes. Aha. Mr. Fortescue, who had made his fortune by blackmailing people. I wondered how many people in that stellar mob were there because they were afraid not to be.
After pinpointing where Mr. Fortescue and Ernie were in the room, I meandered over to a table laden with all sorts of edible treats. Hoisting Rosie to a position against my hip, I held her firm with my elbow. Then, arming myself with a plate and filling it with liver pâté, a few tiny sausages, some cheese, and two little meatballs, I put her down on the floor and gave her a snitch of liver pâté. She was my friend for life after that.
That being the case, and with an air of perfect innocence, I wandered over to the door to the foyer, where stood the butler, poised to answer the door should some exalted personage—or even another couple like Ernie and me—ring the bell. I stumbled a trifle, and pasted an expression of great pain on my face, dropping as I did so one of the meatballs for Rosie’s delectation. She obliged.
“Excuse me.”
The butler turned and lifted an eyebrow at me. Probably Lulu would have been intimidated. I’d grown up with butlers stuffier than this one lording it over the house in which I lived, so I wasn’t. “Madam?” said he in a snooty voice.
“I’m terribly sorry to disturb you, but I’m feeling ill. Could you please direct me to the ladies’ parlor?” The look on my face was one I’d practiced when much younger. Chloe and I used to see which of us could appear more pitiable in an attempt to weasel candy money from our grandparents. I almost always got more money than she did, although I’m not sure if it’s because I looked pathetic or because I was younger and had long brown braids and big blue eyes.
He thawed. I’d figured he would. “Of course, Madam.” He gestured at a uniformed footman. “Henry, please show this lady to the ladies’ retiring room.”
The ladies’ retiring room? Merciful heavens.
Henry was a young man with an air of awed interest about him. This was probably his first big party, and it was crammed with famous people. He bowed to me, even though I wasn’t famous. “Right this way.”
“Thank you so much, Henry.” Deciding I might as well pretend to be a starlet, I gave him a glorious smile and his Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed. I, still carrying my plate of doggie delectables, followed Henry, and Rosie, bless her greedy little heart, followed me.
Her toenails made a clackety noise on the tiles. I hoped Henry wouldn’t try to shoo her away or put two and two together. When we got to the ladies’ parlor, he made as if to get rid of Rosie, but I forestalled him. “Oh, please, let her come in with me. She’s such a sweetheart.”
“Very well, Madam.” He was so bedazzled, I doubt that he even rolled his eyes as he turned to go back to his post beside the butler. “Oh, Henry,” I said as he started off. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave the party because I feel so unwell. Would you please fetch my cape. It’s a black crepe one with embroidery down the front.” I’d already anticipated this sly move with two dollar bills which I thrust at Henry. “And if you could please tell Mr. Templeton that I’m unwell? He’ll have to take me home.”
The next part might be tricky. However, under the policy of “nothing ventured, nothing gained,” I decided to go ahead and try. Leaving both the plate of goodies and Rosie in the ladies’ parlor (I set the plate on a counter where Rosie couldn’t get at it), I left the room and stood near the ladies’ parlor door, trying very hard to look as if I were in the process of dying, and waited for my cape and Ernie. My cape arrived first, carried by yet a third uniformed lackey. I handed him another dollar bill and another brilliant, but pitiable, smile. “Thank you so much. Is Henry fetching Mr. Templeton? I do feel terribly ill.” To prove it, I put a hand to my brow as if checking for fever.
“I’m awful sorry, ma’am,” this latest fellow said, goggling at me. The black crepe frock was truly quite lovely, and my newly bobbed hair made me look the picture of fashion. At least, I believe it did. I couldn’t think of any other reason for him to stare so, unless he was memorizing my features in case I later got famous.
Making my smile a trifle more pathetic, I said, “Thank you so much,” and prayed he’d go away.
“Is there anything I can do for you, ma’am?”
“No, but I do thank you. You’re very kind.”
My nerves were jumping like boys on several pogo sticks as I stood there, and I wanted to yell at him to go away and leave me alone.
He didn’t get the hint. “Are you sure? Would you like
something to drink or anything?”
I couldn’t stand much more of his attention. “No, thank you. In fact, I feel quite ill.” And, lifting my hand to my mouth, I ducked into the ladies’ parlor once more. Rosie jumped on me as if we’d been parted for a year or three. I knelt to fend her off—I was wearing new black silk stockings, and didn’t want to get a ladder—and listened for all I was worth, praying I’d hear the sound of that pestilential boy’s retreat. I did, and I nearly fainted from relief.
“Wait here another little minute, Rosie,” I said, and exited the room, giving her a sliver of cheese to keep her company.
And there, thank God! was Ernie Templeton, walking down the hallway toward me, his face like a thundercloud. I didn’t care about that.
“What the devil is going on? That guy back there—” he hooked a thumb over his shoulder “—said you’re sick. Damn it, Mercy—”
“Stay there,” I commanded crisply, and ducked back into the ladies’ parlor. There I scooped up Rosie, threw my cape over both her and my arm, wrapped the remaining sausages, cheese and meatballs in my handkerchief, and stuffed them into my pocket, praying they wouldn’t stain my gorgeous new frock beyond redemption. From that pocket, I could fetch tidbits and feed them to Rosie under the cover of my cape. Then I left the parlor, jerked my head in Ernie’s direction—I didn’t dare take his arm for fear I’d drop something—and said, “Let’s go.”
“Damn it, Mercy—”
Through gritted teeth, I said, “Let’s go!” I gave him as significant a look as I could under the circumstances, and stepped out smartly toward the front door, still attempting to appear as if I were about to faint from whatever mysterious illness I’d suddenly developed. The two behaviors weren’t necessarily compatible, but I do believe I carried them off rather well.
He didn’t understand, of course, but he did as I requested. The butler opened the door, and we departed from Mr. Fortescue’s party approximately twenty minutes after arriving at it. Ernie grumbled all the way to the Studebaker. I didn’t say a word until the uniformed car caddies had opened my door for me, and Ernie started the engine. Actually, I didn’t speak then, either, because I was too busy rescuing food from my pockets and praying my dress wasn’t stained.
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