Lady Rample and the Silver Screen

by Shéa MacLeod

  “My friend, Archie, has been in the biz awhile,” he explained to Cyril. “Just finished up a movie with Marlene Dietrich. Comes out this October. Blonde Venus, it’s called. Too thrilling. He’s been teaching me the ropes, so to speak.”

  “Are you interested in appearing on screen yourself?” Cyril asked, eyeing Chaz closely. “I could get you a screen test.”

  Chaz barked a laugh. “Me? You jest. I’m afraid I’m not nearly as handsome as Archie.”

  “I don’t know who this Archie person is,” Lola interrupted, fluttering her long, false lashes, “but he must be a dreamboat if he’s handsomer than you.”

  To which Chaz blushed appropriately, although the man hadn’t a shy bone in his body. “You are too kind, Mrs. Brumble.”

  She winced. “Call me Lola.” Her tone was rife with meaning. Too bad for her she was barking up the wrong tree.

  “Well, now, if you’ll excuse us, I’m going to whisk my lovely wife away for some private time.” Cyril beamed from ear to ear. As if he couldn’t believe he was married to such a stunning creature. He seemed completely oblivious to her flirting.

  Lola gave us a sunny smile. She seemed genuinely happy. Gone was the demanding, pouting bride-to-be and in her place was the stunning starlet of the silver screen. How astonishing.

  “I’ll be going, too,” Dolly said in a strident voice that carried to nearby diners, causing a few to turn their heads. “I’ve had quite enough of the hoi polloi for one day.”

  “I don’t think she knows how to use that term correctly,” Chaz murmured as Dolly said her goodbyes to the newly married couple.

  “Not in the slightest,” I agreed.

  Once Dolly had departed, we wished Cyril and Lola our best. Cyril assured us he’d send Sam back to take us home, but that we were to take our time and enjoy the rest of the champagne and food.

  “Well, I never would have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes,” Aunt Butty said as the two of them strolled arm-in-arm from the restaurant. She flagged down a waiter and ordered two mimosas.

  “What’s that, Aunt?”

  “Cyril marrying a woman. And one half his age. I expected he’d remain a bachelor, if you know what I mean.”

  “Didn’t you say he’d fallen in love with a woman before?” I asked. “What about that girl he took up on the roof for a picnic?”

  “A picnic. Is that what they’re calling it?” Chaz said slyly.

  Aunt Butty ignored him. “That was before. I don’t think he realized then. About men, I mean.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t just like men,” Chaz suggested. “Maybe he swings both ways. It happens, my friend—” he broke off as if realizing he was about to reveal a deep, dark secret that wasn’t his to keep. “I know people,” he finished lamely.

  “Do you suppose it’s real?” I mused. “Cyril and Lola’s marriage?”

  “Who can say? If it works for them, one can but wish them well.” Aunt Butty shook her head and downed her mimosa.

  “Something feels off, though, doesn’t it?” I’d been getting that feeling since we first arrived.

  “Definitely. But I’m sure it isn’t any of our business.”

  “As if that ever stopped us,” I said dryly.

  “You honestly think there’s something going on more than just an older man marrying a younger woman?” Chaz lifted a brow.

  “I have a feeling...” I twisted my glass between my fingers. “I just can’t quite put my finger on it.” I turned to Chaz. “What did you think about the happy couple?” I wished he could have met Wayne Palmer. Now there was a character who set my senses tingling. And not in a good way.

  “Cyril is an interesting man. Rather at odds with himself, I’d say. Not uncommon in his situation. Trying desperately to be something acceptable and failing miserably.”

  I gave him a sad look. “That’s understandable.”

  “Unfortunately, it is,” he agreed. “On the other hand, he clearly does dote on Lola, though perhaps not in an entirely sexual way. Almost...almost in a possessive way.”

  “Like she’s a china doll and he wants to own her,” I murmured.

  “Something like that, yes,” he agreed.

  “Nonsense,” Aunt Butty snapped. “I’ve known him for years. He’s never been like that.”

  “Perhaps not,” Chaz soothed, “but Hollywood changes people. Archie’s told me enough stories that’s become obvious.”

  “I really need to meet this Archie,” I said.

  Chaz smiled. “That can be arranged. Now, Lola...she’s almost exactly what I’d expect from a Hollywood starlet: spoiled, selfish, obsessed with material possessions and attention. And yet she does seem to have a soft spot for Cyril.”

  “When she’s getting her way,” Aunt Butty said.

  He gave her a nod. “Yes. That seems to be the case. This may simply be a marriage of convenience. Nothing more to it than that.”

  “You’re probably right,” I admitted. “But like I said, I’ve got a feeling...”

  “You and your feelings.” Aunt Butty flagged down the waiter. “I think we’re going to need more mimosas.”

  Chapter 6

  For the next couple of days, Aunt Butty and I were forced to knock about on our own while Cyril and Lola had a mini honeymoon. The chauffeur, Sam, kindly drove us around and showed us some of the sights while Carter, Cyril’s man servant, kept us in cocktails, chocolate bonbons, and reading material by the pool.

  On the first day, Sam drove us over to Greystone Manor. The mansion—for there was no other word to describe it—was massive. Perched high on a hill, pale gray stone stretched against impossibly blue sky while well-tended lawns stretched downward toward the road.

  “It’s what they call a Tudor revival,” he explained as we wound through the hills. “Built it back in 1928.”

  “Practically new, then,” Aunt Butty said, craning her neck to get a good look out the car window. “How could it be haunted?”

  “Well, four months after Ned Doheny moved in with his wife and five children, he and his secretary, a man named Plunkett, were found dead in one of the spare rooms.”

  “Ghastly!” Aunt Butty sounded delighted. “Who murdered whom?”

  Thrilled with having a captive audience, Sam continued. “Story has it, Plunkett was angry Doheny wouldn’t give him a raise, so he shot Doheny then turned the gun on himself in despair. That’s the official story, anyway.”

  “What’s the unofficial story?” I asked, rolling down the window to better see the peaks and turrets. It was a lovely house. What seemed like hundreds of windows sparkled in the sun and imposing wrought iron gates blocked the way up the drive. I could well imagine an exclusive party on these grounds, the glittering Hollywood elite all in attendance.

  “According to gossip, it was the other way around,” Sam said. “It was Ned Doheny that killed his secretary then himself.”

  “What do you think happened?” Aunt Butty asked.

  “Doheny wasn’t buried with the rest of the family in the Catholic cemetery, so what does that tell you?” Sam eyeballed us in the rearview mirror, one golden eyebrow raised.

  “That he committed suicide,” I said. It was the one reason a Catholic couldn’t be buried in a Catholic cemetery. It was the same for the Church of England where my father was a parish priest.

  Sam nodded. “Got it in one.”

  Since the house wasn’t open to the public, he drove us around so we could view the stunning grounds, reminiscent of the finest formal gardens of England with neat box hedges and perfectly trimmed rose bushes. But for all it’s glory, there was a darkness to it, too. As if the deaths that had occurred there somehow tainted the place.

  “It’s a beautiful property,” Aunt Butty mused. “They should shoot a film here, don’t you think?”

  “Lucy Doheny wouldn’t have it,” Sam said. “She owns it now and her word is law. But you’re right. It would make a great setting.”

  “For a murder mystery,”
I muttered. I was betting that the Doheny/Plunkett murder suicide wouldn’t be the last dark deed done at this manor.

  ON THE SECOND DAY, Chaz rang me up. “Archie’s throwing a little soiree tonight,” he said without preamble. “Nothing fancy. You should come. Wear a nice frock and bring Aunt Butty.” He gave me the address and rang off without preamble.

  The rest of the day was spent in a flurry of activity as Aunt Butty and I selected our gowns, had Maddie set our hair, and buffed and polished every inch of our bodies in preparation. Chaz had assured me it would be a “small gathering, just a few friends,” but I knew Chaz’s idea of a “small” gathering could easily mean over one hundred people.

  Archie’s bungalow was surprisingly modest, set in a quiet street not far from Cyril’s studio. I’d expected a movie start to live somewhere more glamorous.

  “He’s just getting started,” Aunt Butty assured me. “I’m sure he’ll move up eventually, but he’s probably one of those poor, starving artists right now.”

  What she knew about starving artists was beyond me, but I followed her up the walk to the charming little house. Every light in the place was on and music and laughter spilled from the open door.

  We walked in to find the front room packed with glamorous people in sparkling gowns and dark tuxedos. I was glad I’d worn my Jean Patou. The evening dress had a Grecian flair and was elegant enough for any Hollywood party.

  Chaz waved at us from the other side of the room before squeezing his way through the crowd. He swooped down to kiss our cheeks. “You came, delightful! Come darlings. You must meet Archie.”

  Somehow, we managed to squirm our way through to where a baby grand was set up. A dark-haired young man sat at the piano, long fingers dancing across the ivories. The tune was jaunty and fun, and his talent was obvious. When the tune finished, Chaz leaned over.

  “Archie, come meet my dear friend, Lady Rample and her aunt, Lady Lucas.”

  The young man glanced up and I swear my mouth fell open. He could just about have been Chaz’s twin! The same strong jaw. The same smoldering dark gaze. The same sardonic twist to the lips. And that little cleft in the chin.

  “Ophelia, Butty, this is my good friend, Archie Leach.”

  “Please,” Archie stood up and gave us a bow, “Call me Cary. It’s my stage name, but I simply can’t get Chaz to call me by it.”

  Chaz rolled his eyes. “Cary Grant? It’s a ridiculous name. What’s wrong with Archibald Leach?”

  Archie—or rather, Cary—shook his head in amusement. “Thank you for coming, ladies. Would you like a drink?”

  “Anything with whiskey,” I said.

  “Come on, Chaz, let’s get these ladies some cocktails.”

  “Goodness me,” Aunt Butty said as the two walked away. “They could be twins.”

  “It’s astonishing,” I agreed. “Do you suppose they were...you know? Good friends?”

  Aunt Butty raised a brow. “I would think it would be rather like making love to oneself.”

  Before I could reply, I caught sight of another handsome man across the room. “Look, darling, it’s Gary Cooper!”

  Aunt Butty had to rise up on tiptoes to see over the crowd. “We must catch him, Ophelia! Hurry!” Without waiting for Chaz and Cary to return with our drinks, she plunged wildly into the crowd.

  Fearing she might get trampled—or more likely trample someone else—I plunged in after her, squeezing my way between two starlets who were deciding whether or not to bleach their hair blonde or stay brunette. I jostled the elbow of a portly man and nearly sloshed his drink on him, to which I apologized profusely. And I rammed my own elbow into the ribs of another man who thought grabbing my posterior was amusing.

  Gary Cooper was just a few feet ahead of us when he suddenly turned and made his way toward the front door. Aunt Butty stopped, grabbed my arm, and shouted, “He’s getting away!”

  She charged through the crowd, dragging me after her, shoving people right and left. But alas, by the time we could get to the door, Gary Cooper had escaped through it and was striding purposefully down the pavement. He hopped into his car—the same one he’d been driving at the engagement party—and took off into the night.

  “Oh, dear,” I said. “There he goes.”

  Aunt Butty actually stamped her foot. “Curses! Foiled again. I swear, one of these days I will get that man.”

  I had no doubt she would. Poor Gary Cooper.

  WHEN CYRIL AND LOLA returned Saturday evening, Lola asked if we wanted to join her on a shopping expedition, I was more than happy to do so. Aunt Butty needed no urging, either. Especially when Lola assured her we would lunch at one of the most popular Hollywood hotspots.

  “Everyone eats there, dontcha know. Jean Harlow, Carole Lombard...”

  “What about that divine Gary Cooper?” Aunt Butty demanded, clearly not over his most recent escape from her clutches.

  “Oh, sure. All the time,” Lola said airily.

  “Done. Let me get my hat.” Aunt Butty strode off for one of her monstrosities while I excused myself to touch up my face and grab my handbag.

  Within minutes we were swooping down the drive, headed for Wilshire Boulevard and a department store called Bullock’s Wilshire, which amused me no end. Lola assured us it was, “Quite upscale, honey.” I could only take her word for it.

  The building turned out to be a stunning, new art deco with a massive tower topped in copper. The moment Sam pulled up to the porte-cochere, a liveried valet dashed out to open our doors.

  Inside stretched an elegant foyer of travertine tile and high ceilings with massive chandeliers. Lola led us straight to the vaulted Perfume Hall. My senses were immediately assaulted by every perfume known to mankind and then some. Both Aunt Butty and Lola made purchases, but I lingered around the edge of the hall, trying to avoid getting spritzed in the face by some overeager sales girl.

  We took one of the brass, nickel, and gunmetal lifts upstairs to browse low glass cases filled with accessories and rosewood stands displaying designer clothing. Live mannequins stood or strolled about, showing off dresses and pantsuits and hats.

  “We can check out the salons upstairs,” Lola suggested. “That’s where the real couture is.”

  “I’d much rather visit the tearoom,” Aunt Butty said. “I’m feeling a bit peckish.”

  “Well, then, let’s go!” Lola agreed.

  We took the lifts to the top floor where the dessert-themed tearoom stood. The walls were papered in green silk, tables draped in cream linen, and chandeliers dripping with so many dazzling crystals, it was a wonder they didn’t pull down the ceiling on our very heads.

  We were seated immediately and served surprisingly well-brewed tea, finger sandwiches in a variety of flavors—beef and horseradish, cucumber and cream cheese, chicken salad—and a stunning array of desserts, from mini fruit tartlets and macarons to rich petite fours and caramel drenched blueberry pudding, each more delicious than the last. It was no wonder they were famed for their desserts.

  “Mae West shops here,” Lola confided as she nibbled on iced lemon cookies. “So does Marlene Dietrich. All the best people do, you know. It pays to be seen here.”

  As we enjoyed our repast, women in haute couture gowns strolled the aisles, twisting and turning and posing so patrons could get a good look. Apparently, one could order oneself a gown right there while one was having tea!

  “Oh, that wrap is perfect,” Lola squealed, pointing to a sheer number shot through with gold thread. “It’s just like the one that went missing.”

  “You lost a wrap?” I asked.

  “Not lost, honey,” she tittered. “I couldn’t lose something in my own house, could I? No, someone took it during the pool party. I’m sure of it.”

  “Why would anyone do that?” Aunt Butty asked. “Surely all the attendees were friends of yours.”

  Lola shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe they wanted to sell it or something. People do that, you know. Sell things that belong to famous
people.”

  “And you’re famous enough for that, are you?” Aunt Butty murmured. Fortunately, the music was loud enough Lola didn’t hear her.

  My mind immediately went to the woman in the bushes. Could she have simply been a common thief taking advantage of the distraction of a party to slip in and snag some expensive knickknacks? But why steal a wrap?

  Lola caught the attention of a severe-looking woman in a black dress. They had a brief, whispered conversation and the woman walked away, leaving Lola with a satisfied expression. She eyeballed my plate. “Done. She’ll have the new wrap delivered to the car. Now, are you going to eat all that cake?”

  I fingered my knife. “Yes. Yes, I am.”

  AFTER A LONG AFTERNOON shopping, my feet ached. I was never so glad to climb into a car and head away from the city.

  As we swooped up the drive, the house came into view. “What the Sam Hill?” Lola said.

  I leaned forward to get a better view. A crowd of black Ford cruisers surrounded the house. Each had neat, white lettering on the side of the doors which I couldn’t quite make out at this distance. But I did recognize the uniforms of the men milling about.

  “What are the police doing here?” I wondered aloud.

  “Probably a break in. Cyril was reading about it in the paper the other day. Lots of them going on. He was talking about getting more security.” Lola seemed unperturbed; she was too busy admiring her purchases, particularly her new wrap.

  “How exciting,” Aunt Butty chortled.

  I frowned, once again recalling the woman I’d seen hiding in the bushes during the party. She did seem to be looking for someone. Or something. Could she have broken in?

  The chauffeur had to halt the car quite a distance from the house, thanks to the police vehicles. As he came ‘round to let us all out, a man in a rumpled, dark-gray suit approached us. He was followed by a couple of uniformed officers, both ridiculously young and eager.