All That Glitters

by Michael Murphy

  Christine sank back in her chair, covering her head in both hands before looking up. “Eric and I had an affair that began a year ago. I was determined to be discreet. I didn’t want anyone to think I landed the part in Midnight Wedding because I slept with the screenwriter.”

  Laura’s eyes glistened. “No one would think that.”

  “Damn it, Laura.” Christine picked up her cat and scratched his neck with her long red nails. “You’re not in New York anymore. Everyone in Hollywood would think that.”

  Laura shook her head. “I can’t picture you with Eric Carville.”

  Christine lit a Chesterfield. “He offered comfort when I needed it, that’s all. We were together maybe once a week, but we drifted apart, or Eric drifted to someone else.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m certain he was involved with someone at the end. A gal knows, right, Laura?”

  “I have little experience in that area.” Laura didn’t meet my gaze.

  I didn’t want to know about other men in Laura’s past. I could only focus on the future, our future.

  Christine’s chin fell. The cigarette trembled in her hand. “Eric was a jerk, most times, but he also had a vulnerable side. He didn’t deserve what happened to him. Oh, Jake, I’m afraid the police will find out and think I killed him. What am I going to do?”

  “Why did Eric confront you when we arrived at the party?”

  “The past couple of months, Eric grew more distant and treated me like I’d seen him treat other dames, but when I suggested we start seeing other people, he became incensed.”

  Laura sucked in a gasp. “Then you showed up with Jake.”

  “Sorry, Jake.” Christine’s lower lip quivered. “I…I might have used you to make Eric jealous. When you two fought at the party, I felt responsible. However, in a twisted, pathetic way, I was pleased Eric still cared about me.”

  Now I understood why Christine had offered me a ride from the train station and asked me to take her to the party. “Who went to Eric’s room that night?”

  Christine held out both hands and Napoleon jumped down. “I have no idea who the tramp might have been.”

  “Oh, come on!” Laura jumped to her feet, her face reddening. “You must have some idea.”

  Christine rose, eyes pleading. “Eric could be a bastard then a prince. I know plenty of dames he slept with. At least half a dozen attended the party. It could have been one of them or someone new.”

  Laura, fists clenched, stood inches from Christine. “The cops think Jake killed Eric, and it’s your fault!”

  “Laura!” I lunged and held Laura’s shoulders to calm her down and keep her from socking Christine in the kisser.

  Tears welled in Christine’s eyes as she backed away from Laura.

  Laura shook off my grip and sat on the couch.

  I stood between the two costars. “Do you think Angie Burkheart might be the mystery woman?”

  Christine let out a gasp. “Angie! Why do you suspect—?”

  The back door opened and William Powell entered, whistling “All of Me,” a happy tune, while briskly wiping his arms with the white towel. “Jake, Laura. What a delightful surprise.”

  Struggling to regain her composure, Christine turned her head and blinked away tears as Powell shook my hand and kissed Laura’s cheek. “I dropped by earlier for a dip in Christine’s fabulous pool. She has plenty of extra swimwear. Why don’t you join us?”

  He had no clue we’d seen him slip from Christine’s bedroom.

  “We’d love nothing better, Bill.” Laura’s gracious smile hid her anger with Christine. “But we just stopped by to ask Christine’s opinion about a scene Jake’s revising, and we have another stop to make.”

  “That’s too bad.” Powell shrugged to Christine. “Guess it’s just you and me, doll.”

  Napoleon rushed toward Powell and raked a claw over his foot, drawing blood.

  Powell let out a painful howl and grabbed his foot.

  “Bad kitty.” Christine swept up the cat. “He hates men.” She took him down the hallway.

  Powell balanced on one foot and inspected the damage. “You’d think that goofy bastard would be used to men.”

  I snickered. “He only hissed at me.”

  Christine returned with iodine and cotton balls. She helped Powell to a chair and doctored his wound. She finished and kissed him. “Would you give us a moment, Bill?”

  “Of course.” He winced as he rose. “Jake, Laura, why don’t the four of us have dinner? I’d love to chat about the Thin Man screenplay I just read, particularly the final scene, where Nick Charles gathers all the suspects in a room and reveals who killed the skinny guy.”

  “This weekend?” If the cops hadn’t tossed me in the can by then.

  “Perfect. See you both then.” He winked at Laura, draped the towel over one shoulder, and hobbled toward the back door.

  When he closed the door behind him, Christine walked us to the foyer. She opened the front door, and Napoleon brushed past her in a dash for freedom.

  I made a halfhearted attempt to stop the cat.

  Christine held up one hand. “That’s okay. He’s going to visit his girlfriend next door.”

  Laura chuckled. “That would explain his temper.”

  Christine shook her head. “Jake, couldn’t you rent something better than that old heap?”

  Laura laughed and squeezed Christine’s arm. “I know!”

  Wasn’t that just like a couple of dames? One second they were ready to scratch each other’s eyes out and the next minute they were laughing about a cat’s sex life and an old jalopy.

  I snatched my hat from the table. I didn’t want to jaw about the car or Christine’s damn cat. “Are the cops aware of your relationship with Eric?”

  “No, but I’ll tell them everything.” Christine glanced over her shoulder toward the pool. “Right after Bill leaves.”

  I shook my head. “You’ve done nothing wrong. I don’t want you subjected to any public embarrassment or people thinking that’s why you landed the part. Don’t say anything to the detectives unless you have to.”

  She cocked her head. “When would I have to?”

  Laura snapped the answer. “If the cops arrest Jake.”

  Christine hugged Laura. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  As we drove from Christine’s house, Laura shook her head. “You should’ve asked Christine to call Annabelle. Wouldn’t that be the quickest way to get the cops off your back?”

  “Gus would think she made up the story to help one of her Hollywood pals. I have to solve this case.” For the first time I’d made real progress. “If you thought Christine should call the cops, why didn’t you speak up?”

  Laura squeezed my hand. “Because, in spite of my inclination to play by the rules, I think you made the right call.”

  “Thanks.” I drove toward the Hollywood Hills. “If they’re planning to arrest me, I suspect they’ll wait until after the funeral tomorrow.”

  “Twenty-four hours. Any last-meal requests?”

  I laughed. “I’m glad you can still find humor in the situation.”

  “Laughter keeps me from sobbing. Where are we headed now?”

  “Norman Carville’s place.”

  “It’s not a place, it’s an estate. Besides, the old man’s at the studio.”

  “I’m counting on him not being around. I want to talk to James.” I was determined to break through the stuffed-shirt exterior of the butler and learn what he knew about the people at the party.

  We reached the hills, and the Model T began to overheat. Each minute, more and more steam curled from the top of the radiator. When I finally parked in the circular drive of the Carville Estate, steam hissed from the front of the car.

  Laura shook her head. “I think it’s time to call that used-car-salesman friend and get a better car.”

  I patted the dash. “She just needs to cool off a few minutes, don’t you, gir
l?”

  I climbed out and opened the hood. With a handkerchief, I unscrewed the radiator cap and jumped back when steam shot up like Old Faithful. “See, dear? She’s fine. Like me, she could use a drink.”

  Laura tugged on my arm and stopped me before we reached the front door. “I like James. Please be nice.”

  What? “Of course I’ll be nice.”

  “You were…abrupt with Christine.”

  Me? “I thought you were going to punch her in the mouth.”

  Laura grinned. “Only for a moment.”

  Impeccably dressed as always, James stood in the doorway. To my surprise, he wore what on others would be called a goofy grin, and his toupee was askew. He welcomed us both, took my hat, and led us inside. “Mr. Carville isn’t here, but I suspect you know that.”

  I walked past him and couldn’t mistake the aroma of whiskey. Laura’s raised eyebrow told me she smelled liquor as well. Being drunk in the middle of the day seemed surprising, especially for a butler.

  “Then you understand why we’re here?”

  “Mr. Carville said he suspected you might look into Eric’s murder since you used to be a gumshoe.” The butler laughed. “Gumshoe. You Americans. Would you like to meet in the library?”

  Laura shook her head. “How about by the pool?”

  “As you wish. May I bring you some coffee?”

  We both answered yes at the same time. He headed for the kitchen. We crossed the ballroom and went outside. Laura whispered, “It’s noon and he’s drunk already.”

  “The question is, has James always had a problem with alcohol, or did his drinking start after Eric’s murder?”

  “I hope it’s not a problem.” She chose a table shaded by a large umbrellas.

  A moment later, James, swaying slightly, carried a tray containing a carafe, three cups, and containers of cream and sugar. He stumbled, and one of the cups tipped over. I grabbed the coffee before it landed on the deck.

  He dropped into a chair. “Did you feel that?”

  Laura cocked her head. “Feel what?”

  “The tremor. We get mild quakes here all the time.”

  Especially when we’ve been drinking. I filled each of the cups.

  James ignored the coffee and gazed over the Hollywood Hills, alone with his thoughts.

  I sipped the brew. “Relax, James, and enjoy some joe.”

  “Joe. Ah yes, coffee.” He let out a ragged breath and pulled the cup closer. He added a splash of cream then two sugar cubes. He stirred the drink with a spoon and sipped. “How can I help?”

  “You said you’d been with Mr. Carville from the beginning.”

  “The beginning of the studio.” He glanced around as if someone might be watching. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

  Smoke? Drink? The man was full of surprises. “Go right ahead.”

  He pulled out a pack of cigarettes, lit one, and took a long, satisfying puff. “At the risk of boring you both…I was an entertainer in my younger days, what today is called a song and dance man. I was an excellent dancer and have a trunk full of clippings to prove it.”

  “What happened?” Laura asked.

  “I come from a family of military gentlemen. At my father’s shall we say ‘urging,’ I enlisted when the second Boer War broke out. A bullet shattered my knee. Almost lost my leg. Walked with a limp for several years. My dancing days were over.”

  I was growing impatient. Even drunk, the butler was a bit of a bore. Boer War indeed.

  “I returned to the theater I loved, but at age thirty, I still lived in the same room I had as a boy. My father, who’d had enough of my playacting, slapped enough money into my hand to give me a fresh start someplace, anyplace else. It was my idea to relocate across the pond, and California sounded like the land of opportunity. As you might suspect, I quickly found I was still a song-and-dance man who couldn’t dance, couldn’t make a living in the City of Angels any more than I could in England. I auditioned for a silent movie, not a movie exactly, a scene from Hamlet. Norman was a cameraman. His career took off. Mine, well, I had bills to pay. I did some contemporary plays, including the role of a butler. By that time, Norman’s studio was making money. He purchased this house and offered me a job as a real butler. Looking back, I had as much chance of making it in the movies as a teamster does of joining the Rockettes.”

  James crushed the cigarette in the ashtray. “I trust now you’re sufficiently aware of my history with the Carville family, you’ll quit, as you Americans say, beating around the bush.”

  “Little went on in this house you weren’t aware of.”

  “I thought so until someone committed a murder on my watch.” He pulled a flask from his suit, unscrewed the cap, and sipped.

  I had to press him. “Were you fond of Eric?”

  “Eric moved back home to help his father recover from a heart attack.” James let out a deep breath. “Anyone who’d do that can’t be all bad.”

  “Let me ask it another way.” I tried not to react to Laura’s kick under the table. “What would have happened to your position if Norman had passed away and Eric had inherited the estate?”

  “Do you read Mary Roberts Rinehart, Mr. Donovan?” He raised the flask to his lips.

  “From time to time.”

  “I thought maybe that’s where you came up with the cliché ‘the butler did it.’ You might be an excellent writer and were probably a fabulous detective, but I’m not a suspect in Eric Carville’s murder.” He slammed his fists against the table. “You are! You’re here to, as Dashiell Hammett might say, ‘pin the rap on me.’ “

  Laura leaped to her feet. “You son of a bitch. What gives you the right—?”

  “Laura.” I held her arm. So much for her admonition. “Be nice.”

  “Like hell I will. Jake’s trying to solve the murder of your employer’s son. I’d expect you’d think enough of Norman to hear Jake out and help if you can. “

  James rose on steady feet. His intoxicated appearance vanished as he barked, “I didn’t kill Eric Carville!”

  “I’m just looking for answers.” I snatched the flask and sipped. “Water. You thought by playing the role of boozehound you might get out of answering my questions.” I had to give the guy credit. He’d fooled Laura and me.

  “Something like that.”

  “You crazy bastard!” Laura’s face reddened. “We’re here to solve a murder, not to frame you.”

  “Miss Wilson, please. With all due respect, why should I trust either of you?”

  “Because, frankly,” I said, “I believe we represent the best chance of finding out who killed Eric Carville.”

  James blew out a long breath. “Then you’ll probably want to see where I was when the shot was fired.”

  As we followed the butler to the kitchen, I couldn’t help but smile at Laura. Be nice, she’d said. I winked at her, and she smacked my arm.

  James showed us to the kitchen table where he’d been sitting when he heard the shot upstairs. He opened a door in the back of the room and pointed up the back stairs to the second floor. He described the panic he felt when he dashed up the stairs. He ran toward Eric’s room and froze in disbelief.

  I opened a door beside the stairs and peeked outside at a lush flower garden. A wrought-iron gate connected the house to the block wall that surrounded the estate. Through the locked gate was the circular drive in the front of the house.

  I stepped back into the kitchen. “Who has keys to the gate?”

  James shrugged. “Todd, Norman, and…Eric.”

  “Do you?”

  He nodded.

  I didn’t want to ask all the questions, and Laura looked like she had some of her own.

  She stood at the foot of the stairs. “When you ran upstairs, I assume you didn’t see anyone running from the room. You would have mentioned that.”

  “Of course.”

  “A woman joined Eric in his room the night he was killed.” Laura tossed out the main reason for coming here. �
�Jake and I would like to know who she was.”

  I clapped a hand on the butler’s shoulder. “Like I said, little went on in this house without you knowing about it.”

  James pressed his lips together a moment, as if keeping a secret inside. “If I give you her name, it could ruin her life and the lives of others.”

  Laura grabbed his wrist. “Damn it, no more games.”

  “You’re right.” With his eyes closed, James let out a ragged breath. “It was Christine Brody.”

  Chapter 15

  Slick Ray Gambino

  With a freshly filled radiator, courtesy of James, we drove through the Carville Estate’s tree-lined drive. Laura and I argued over the butler’s claim Christine Brody had been the woman in Eric’s bed the night of the shooting. Laura believed him, but I felt strongly he was protecting someone else.

  We turned toward town. Laura crossed both arms and stared out the window. “Don’t let Christine fool you. She’s an actress.”

  James, too, and he’d fooled us both with the drunken butler bit. “Darling, you’re an actress, and I believe everything you say.”

  Laura gently patted my face. “Keep doing that, dear.”

  The Model T struggled through the twists and turns of the Hollywood Hills. We turned on Mulholland Drive and passed a black sedan parked at the side of the road. With nothing to go on but instinct, I kept my eye on the rearview mirror. The sedan pulled behind us and drew closer.

  Laura peered over her shoulder. “We’re being followed.”

  A sinking feeling grew in my gut as the driver closed the gap to less than fifty yards. We weren’t being followed. We were being pursued. I mashed down on the accelerator.

  I’d been in plenty of car chases. Normally I liked my chances on a winding road. This time I was trying to coax everything out of a twelve-year-old, hard-riding Model T. The other guy drove a powerful-sounding black Chevrolet with balloon tires that gripped the road like a panther.

  I crossed into the oncoming lane, using the entire width of the roadway to smooth out the turns. With a white-knuckled grip on the wheel, I pressed the pedal to the floorboard. I managed to increase the gap but knew the slight advantage wouldn’t last.