All That Glitters

by Michael Murphy

  While I grabbed the two champagne glasses, Powell raised his glass. “To Prohibition.”

  I laughed and drank with him.

  A blonde in her early twenties, with a plunging neckline, slipped her arm in Powell’s. It was hard to ignore her glamorous eyes or the warm smile she gave him. She snatched the actor’s glass before he’d taken a sip, and drank it all.

  Powell signaled for another then introduced us. “Darling, this is the famous mystery writer, Jake Donovan. Jake, my wife, Carole Lombard.”

  She handed him the empty glass. “Ex-wife, darling.”

  “Until the judge signs the decree, I can always hold out hope.”

  “A pleasure to meet you.” Lombard grinned at my two glasses. “A two-fisted drinker, Mr. Donovan? Even Bill takes it one at a time.”

  “I’m with someone, technically.”

  “ ‘Technically,’ that’s an interesting choice of words, for a writer. When a woman leaves the room and asks a man to order her a drink, it’s her way of letting other dames know, keep your mitts off.”

  I’d never heard that. “Is that true, Bill?”

  He shrugged. “If I knew as much about women as my reputation says, I wouldn’t be divorcing such a beautiful young dish.”

  After blowing Powell a kiss, Lombard patted my hand. “At least she didn’t ask you to hold her purse. Who is this dame with her sights set on you?”

  Powell cleared his throat. “Christine Brody.”

  Lombard flinched at the mention of the name and squeezed my arm. “Oh, you poor man. You’re going to need something stronger than champagne.”

  She glanced at Powell, and her eyes grew as cold as the ice in his empty glass. “When it comes to men, Christine’s about as choosy as a bus driver.”

  “I’m in a relationship and not at all interested in Miss Brody.”

  “Oh, you are naïve.” Lombard cackled. “Like that will matter to Christine. She’s the kind of girl who buys toothbrushes by the dozen and keeps them around just in case. I’d better take off before she returns and I rip her blond hair out by the black roots.” She stepped away before flashing her ex-husband a smug grin. “Speaking of Christine, darling, did you sign the divorce papers?”

  “Reluctantly.”

  “I still love you.” With a wave of her fingers, she glided across the room.

  Powell let out a long sigh. “She doesn’t wear underwear, you know.”

  Carole Lombard? “Your wife?”

  A head-turning laugh burst from Powell. He dabbed his mouth with a monogrammed handkerchief. “No, no, she does. At least she did six weeks ago, when we last made whoopee.” He swept up another Manhattan from the bar. “Christine Brody.”

  “How do you…” I shouldn’t have asked.

  “Christine’s cultivated the reputation for years. It’s hardly Hollywood’s best-kept secret. If you don’t believe me, ask her for a slow dance when she returns.”

  “I’ll do no such thing.”

  He chuckled and pulled a silver case from his pocket. He offered me a cigarette, which I declined. He lit one with a gold lighter. “Let’s mingle.”

  “Egad!” Powell nearly shrieked. He tugged on my arm and led me in the opposite direction. “It’s Louella Parsons.”

  I peered over my shoulder at a broad-shouldered woman in her early fifties. She wore a pink paisley scarf and a blue velvet hat with a pheasant feather that dipped toward her thick brows with each step. Her yellow flowered dress reminded me of the kitchen curtains in our house in Queens when I was growing up. Her appearance contrasted with the impeccable gowns of the party’s actresses, but her determined look left no doubt that she didn’t give a damn. “Who’s Louella Parsons?”

  “Are you serious? Hollywood’s biggest gossip columnist. Now she’s added a radio program. Worst of all, she possesses an uncanny ability to sense scandal.”

  Louella waved her hand. “Oh, Bill. Bill Powell.”

  Powell froze. He squinted then transformed himself, his face brightening with delight. “Louella.” He kissed her cheek.

  She squeezed both his hands. Her eyes had the tenacity of a teamster. “I’m so sorry your marriage didn’t work out. I’m sure the rumors about Carole and Clark Gable are just that.”

  “Well, you would know.” He tugged me forward. “Louella, this is Jake Donovan, the mystery writer.”

  She chuckled. “Hollywood’s filling up with novelists determined to write screenplays.”

  “I’m strictly a novelist. I’m only here”—I couldn’t share anything about Laura with Hollywood’s most notorious gossip—“for a few days.”

  Louella’s claws looked ready to appear until she glanced over my shoulder. “Bill, your ex seems to be flirting with Eric Carville.”

  Carole Lombard was chatting with an obviously intoxicated Eric Carville.

  “Excuse me while I give her a piece of my mind.” Louella patted his hand then hurried toward Carole and Eric.

  Powell chuckled. “She’ll do no such thing. Louella will probably tell them what a perfect cad I am. Come on, we may only have seconds to make our escape.”

  He thumbed toward Eric as we slipped away. “That twit is one of the most despised men in Hollywood. He’s a talented, charismatic man…until he drinks. He’s a mean drunk.”

  “What’s his brother like?”

  “Todd’s the financial brains of the studio. A quiet, unassuming chap, the kind that I never trust. I’m not a gossip, but the two brothers are practically circling their father’s corpse so they can control the studio and get rid of each other. A regular Cain and Abel.”

  Powell stopped at a vacant table at the edge of the dance floor. “Here comes your date, and I do believe I recognize the fetching woman with her.” He finished his drink and crushed the cigarette into the empty glass. He let out a low whistle. “Last time I saw Laura Wilson, she wore this red figure-flattering dress that really sizzled.”

  Sizzled?

  Laura ignored me. Her soft doe eyes never left Powell. I dismissed my suspicions until she kissed him on the cheek. “What a delight to see you again, Bill.”

  Again? She never mentioned she’d met William Powell.

  He answered with a hug. “My only reason for coming tonight was the chance of seeing you, my dear. You look sensational.”

  Christine ignored Laura and me. She staked her claim by setting her hand on Powell’s arm and purring. “I was so sorry to hear the dreadful news about your divorce.”

  “Now, now, it’s not final yet. Besides behind every storm cloud is a shimmering rainbow. Though, in my case, the pot of gold ends at Carole’s lovely, delicate feet.”

  I might have been in Singapore for all the two women seemed to notice.

  Christine appeared determined to take possession of Powell as she subtly pressed her breast, unencumbered by a brassiere, against his arm. “You’ll survive, I’m sure.”

  “I try to live one day at a time. A dance might take my mind off my grief.” He grabbed Christine’s hand. “You don’t mind, do you, Jake?”

  Mind? I was totally relieved. “Be my guest.”

  “Miss Wilson.” He bowed toward Laura then handed his glass with the cigarette butt to a passing waiter. He gave me a nudge. “Don’t take any wooden nickels.”

  As he led Christine to the dance floor, I caught myself staring at her dress to confirm or disprove Powell’s assertion about her lack of underwear.

  Laura raised an eyebrow. “What are you looking at?”

  If a man ever answered a question like that, the sap deserved everything coming to him. “Is that a new dress?”

  “This old thing?”

  On the edge of the dance floor, Powell led Christine past his soon-to-be ex-wife. I braced myself. “Better duck.”

  As Christine passed by, Lombard stuck out her tongue.

  Laura covered her mouth but couldn’t hold back a laugh.

  “Are you still mad at me?” I handed her Christine’s glass of champagne.


  “I should be.” Laura sipped the drink. “But alcohol has charms that soothe the savage breast.”

  “I’m fairly certain that’s music.”

  “Tomato, tomahto.” She slipped my arm in hers. “Fresh air might do us both some good.” She led me toward the French doors.

  A mist hovered over a swimming pool lit with a blue glow. Lights from homes shimmered in the hills below. Beyond were Hollywood lights.

  Before she asked why I was at the party, I told Laura about the ride from the train station. I explained I accepted Christine’s invitation to the party out of fear of offending one of Laura’s costars.

  Laura smirked. “As long as you keep your eyes off her bottom, I think the evening will turn out swell.”

  I tried to keep the sigh of relief from being too audible. The lights from the hills below shimmered under the moonless sky. Under different circumstances, I’d take Laura in my arms, but fate forced us to play the roles of mere pals. “How long have you known William Powell?”

  “We met two years ago.” Laura finished the champagne without meeting my eyes. “Bill was in New York. You were in Florida.”

  Just the word Florida sent chills up the back of my neck. Frustrated by Laura’s unwillingness to commit, I’d walked out on our relationship. What a moron. “This isn’t how I planned our first night in Hollywood.”

  She set the glass on a wrought-iron table next to the pool. “You’re not enjoying yourself?”

  I restrained myself from wrapping my arms around her. “I am now.”

  Inside, the band began a new song. I recognized it as one of Laura’s favorites, “Deep Purple.” I held out a hand. “Would you care to dance with an old friend from Queens?”

  Laura’s smile reminded me of her schoolgirl crush in high school.

  I swept her into my arms. “You were dancing with Todd Carville earlier. Did you spot anything interesting on the top of his head?”

  “Would you prefer to dance or insult my employer?”

  “I apologize,” I said. “But as long as you can’t be with me then I prefer you spend your time with…”

  “Todd’s a brilliant man,” she barked.

  “That’s what I was going to say.”

  Laura kept a respectable distance at first, but as the slow music played, she pressed herself against me, like old times. “Do you remember where we were the first time we danced to a real band?”

  The question was the type that sent shudders through men the world over. “Boston?”

  “I’ll give you a hint, only one. It was the first time we ever…spent the weekend together.”

  The mention of our first time refocused my memory. “Atlantic City. I borrowed Mickey’s heap that kept overheating, but we made it. We had a candlelight dinner then went dancing. I was the envy of every man on the dance floor. You wore a green silk dress with white pearls and a perfume I remembered on cold, lonely nights when I was gallivanting around the country as a Pinkerton.”

  “You remember.” She set her head on my shoulder and hummed along to the music.

  When the song ended, her lips parted slightly with a questioning smile. “Who did you take to Boston?”

  “Mickey O’Brien.”

  Laura chuckled. She wrapped both arms around my neck and kissed me on the mouth.

  To hell with the Carvilles.

  Still excitingly close, Laura glanced around the deserted pool as if to ensure we were alone then stared into my eyes. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you since we left New York.”

  “What?”

  Laura’s voice quivered. “Jake Donovan, will you marry me?”

  The question caught me completely off guard. Of course I wanted to marry her. I had wanted to marry her long before Atlantic City. I kissed her again as the French doors flew open. I let go as footsteps approached.

  Todd Carville stopped beside us, reinforcing my first impressions of him. He was the kind of guy bullies loved to pick on, even in private schools. “Miss Wilson, my father would like a chat with you.”

  Had we just revealed our relationship to the studio? Laura regained her composure faster than I did. “Let’s not keep him waiting.”

  I tried to salvage the situation. “Thank you for the dance, Miss Wilson.”

  Todd studied my face. “Your lip’s bleeding.”

  I grabbed a handkerchief from my trouser pocket and wiped lipstick from my mouth. I wanted to go after them and help Laura explain our relationship, but then again, she was a talented actress and could no doubt explain away a smooch between old friends. I’d struggled with the Hollywood crowd. It might be best to hide out alone for a while.

  As Todd led her into the ballroom, I sank down on a chair beside the pool and buried my head in my hands. I was really behind the eight ball.

  I’d come to Hollywood to support Laura, and within hours, I’d made a date with her glamorous costar, nearly come to blows with one of the Carvilles, and jeopardized her career by kissing her in front of one of the studio heads. She’d have been better off if I’d stayed in New York. “Damn.”

  Behind me came a low whistle. “Ring-a-ding-ding! I don’t have a clue who the hell you are, but you’re one lucky son of a bitch.”

  I jumped to my feet and peered into the shadows. A young man stepped into the glow of the pool light, holding a red yo-yo. My sense of gloom was tempered by the kid’s odd appearance. A teenager, he stood barely five feet. He wore a blue suit with matching shorts instead of pants, like an eight-year-old might wear.

  “Why’s that, kid?”

  “You arrived with Christine Brody, driving her nifty roadster. Now Laura Wilson asked you to marry her. One night, two of Hollywood’s hottest dames. You’re my new hero.”

  “It’s not polite to listen in on other people’s conversations.”

  With a flick of the wrist, the yo-yo dropped down the string and hovered above the floor. With another yank of the wrist, the yo-yo popped back into his hand. “I didn’t hear everything, just enough to know you and Laura Wilson are hiding your relationship from the Carvilles.”

  “I’d appreciate you not sharing what you heard.”

  “Guess you aren’t part of the movie’s publicity plan, huh? Well, you can count on me. Honor and integrity are my middle names.” He stuffed the yo-yo into his pocket and thrust out his hand. “The rest is Sonny Burkheart.”

  I shook his hand.

  His voice changed to a surprising Brooklyn accent. “Okay, my real name’s Kyle, but everyone in Hollywood knows me as Sonny. I can act, sing, dance, and would still be a star, but puberty came calling.”

  “Tough break, that puberty.”

  “Midnight Wedding is my first role in a year and a half. Two scenes, four lines, if I don’t end up on the cutting-room floor.”

  I couldn’t help notice his smooth legs. “You shave your legs?”

  “You can’t imagine what my old lady makes me do for my career.”

  “Career? What are you, fourteen? You should be out playing baseball.”

  “I prefer tennis, squash, and chasing girls.”

  I scanned the pool area to make sure we were alone. I wasn’t too worried about what Sonny heard, but the Carvilles or someone from the press was a different matter. “Weren’t you part of the Our Gang movies?”

  He theatrically smacked his chest as if he’d been stabbed by a knife. He moaned. “Is this a dagger which I see before me….” He shielded his eyes with the back of one hand.

  “Macbeth.” I searched my memory. “Act two, scene one.”

  “If you say so.” He pulled a pack of Chesterfields from his pocket and lit one. “You an actor, too?”

  “Writer.”

  “Being Shakespeare fans kind of makes us pals, so why don’t you let me finish the rest of your champagne?”

  I downed the drink and set the empty glass on the table beside Laura’s. Although he smoked and wanted a drink of champagne, I sensed being a child star wasn’t as wonderful as people mig
ht think. “How’d you get into the business?”

  “Ma entered me in cute-baby contests. My face appeared in a few ads. By the time I was eight, I’d been in a dozen films. The public loved me. Over the next few years I made The Confederate Yankee, Top Hat, and then a series of Sonny movies. I was a star, but”—he clamped his eyes shut—“overnight came talking pictures, pubic hair, and worst of all…Shirley Temple. They rewrote scripts that should’ve been mine and offered every one to that little towhead with the cute dimples.”

  “What about roles for kids your age?”

  “There’s only a handful of kids who can memorize lines, but every teenager wants to be in the movies. My old lady’s inside trying to keep my career afloat. In Midnight Wedding, I play Christine Brody’s kid brother. The screenplay said ten-year-old.” His voice became two octaves higher. “Gosh, mister, have you seen my dog, Pudgy?” His voice returned to normal. “What do you think? Can I still pull it off?”

  “I think you’re fighting a losing battle.”

  Sonny tilted his head back and let out a bray of laughter. “You’re a straight shooter, mister.”

  “Donovan. Jake Donovan.”

  “Yeah, I heard your name recently. Word is you’re writing a screenplay for the Carvilles.”

  Damn! Christine had probably spread the idea of me working on Midnight Wedding. Before I could set the kid straight, the French doors opened and Eric Carville stepped outside with a highball in one hand.

  He snarled at Sonny. “Beat it, kid.”

  “Sure, Mr. Carville.” Sonny flicked the butt into the pool and disappeared like a puff of cigarette smoke.

  Eric downed half the drink. “We’ve still got a score to settle, Donovan.”

  I’d known this jerk less than twenty-four hours and I already wanted to punch him in the kisser. I might have already if Laura’s career wasn’t so dependent on my behavior. I unbuttoned my jacket and called his bluff. “Marquis of Queensberry rules, or Queens, New York, rules?”

  “I’d like nothing better, but the old man wants a word with you.”

  “Me?”

  “You deaf?” Eric stepped forward and stood inches from me, the reek of gin on his breath.

  I held my ground and didn’t blink. “What does your father want to talk about?”