The Rita Farmer Mystery series Box Set

by Elizabeth Sims

  I trudged to the reference desk and waited until the veteran-looking librarian was free. A nattily dressed guy near retirement age with a really good manicure and the snowcap of a Montblanc pen peeking up from his shirt pocket—I thought if anybody could help me, he could.

  “I want to find out if a certain person was ever an actress with one of the studios back in, oh, the late 1940s, I’d guess. I know her name, but I’m sure she would have used a screen name.”

  He thought for a second, finger on cheek. “You say you have her birth name?”

  “Yes.”

  “None of these books is going to help you.”

  “Oh.”

  He peered at me over a pair of reading glasses with sun-yellow frames and said, “Mario Salvio.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Mario Salvio”—he said the name as if presenting me with a platinum ingot—“wrote for The Hollywood Reporter from 1932 to 1962. He was a compulsive list-keeper. He sort of became the archivist of the studio system.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “He made friends with every secretary in Hollywood—that’s what administrative assistants were called back then, you know, secretaries—and he collected data from them. He actually photostatted every contract anybody signed with MGM, Paramount, Fox, RKO, and Warner Brothers. Probably a lot from Columbia and Universal as well, though they were smaller, and not really into the studio system per se, where the product’s controlled from conception to distribution.”

  “How did he get away with that?”

  “They say he was a most charming fellow. He left his papers to the university.”

  “I see. Well, how do I—”

  “They’re in the archives. Not in this building. Not open to the public without an appointment.”

  “Oh.” I summoned forth the spirit of a young Shelley Winters, that disappointed softness she did so well. “Oh, gosh.”

  He exhaled stressfully and looked at his watch. “I’m on lunch as of…now. Follow me.”

  He was the perfect blend of prissiness and alacrity: My job is essentially beneath me, but I’m glad in spite of myself to have an unusual request where I can show off my own personal arcane warehouse of knowledge, the full scope of which you will never grasp.

  We walked across sunny Dickson Court to the Schoenberg Music Building.

  “Wait here.” He indicated the benches in the stark lobby.

  “I can’t come too?”

  “Since you didn’t make an appointment, it’ll be quicker if I just do it for you.”

  “Oh, OK.”

  He took out his Montblanc and an index card. “What’s the name?”

  I spelled it for him, and he disappeared into the bowels of the building.

  The windows had just been washed and I had nothing to do but watch the students walk by, in their denim and earphones and all those T-shirts of semihorrible UCLA blue. I’m sorry, it is just the weirdest blue.

  Fifteen minutes later my librarian returned, looking as if he’d hiked across the Mojave: his tie was crooked, his wispy locks mussed, his eyes bright. He handed me back the index card.

  Beneath Diane Ratkinson’s name he had printed: PARAMOUNT, 1948-1950. VERA LUXON.

  “Standard contract,” he said. “She either washed out or got pregnant. Now you can search that name elsewhere to find out if she was ever in a picture or what.”

  “Thank you,” I said fervently, squeezing his arm in gratitude. “That must have been quite the ordeal, you were gone for so long.”

  He withdrew his arm. “No, not really.”

  I looked at him in surprise.

  “My boyfriend works down there.” He winked and strolled away.

  Chapter 24 – Fool’s Gold

  George Rowe was so used to sizing up guards and security systems that, like a career burglar, he did it almost subconsciously. He smiled at that thought.

  The security at the Pan Pacific Canine Exposition was haphazard—everybody who had business there was supposed to have an ID badge on a neck string, but no guards were stationed at the chutes to the arena floor. The guards, wearing blue blazers with whatever company’s crest on the pocket, randomly patrolled about with good posture. Usually, private security people are easily outwitted, but he’d noticed a sharp eye or two among this bunch.

  He bought a program. The beagles would begin in the ring in a few minutes. This was an invitation-only competition, like the Masters or presidential fund-raising dinners, featuring only the cream of the litter from all over the world. Still, more than two thousand dogs were entered, and brother, that’s a lot of dogs. The vast arena floor was sectioned, by thigh-high playpen type fencing, into thirty or so small rings, where all the breed competitions were held.

  Nice that the dogs were so beautifully clean—of course they would be—and unsmelly. Rowe had a sensitive nose.

  He saw the logistical challenges of moving all those dogs and their handlers in and out of their competitive rings on time, giving them space to wash and groom, space to wait, well-isolated space to relieve themselves, which in this milieu was known by the euphemism “exercising.”

  He took all this in.

  Not that he was planning anything except talking to Orlando Gold, handler of Nick Polen’s dogs, and looking at the dogs, but it was wise to have options.

  He had never seen so many calm dogs in his life. Rowe knew how perceptive most dogs were—they picked up vibes people didn’t even know they were giving. To make it all the way here, handler and dog must have proved themselves many times elsewhere. Every single dog he saw was lovely—clear-eyed, smoothly brushed, beautifully proportioned—and eager to compete.

  He walked through one of the exhibit halls. He saw, for sale, a nearly life-size raccoon made of soft plastic that squeaked in pain when chomped; a DVD called Rescue Dog! True Tales of Heroism in the Andes; dog treats shaped like slippers, a thousand books about puppies, a portable dog therapeutic Jacuzzi that cost $678.95, and a cleaning kit for same ($16.95 extra). He stopped looking at merchandise.

  He settled down in the stands near ring 22 and watched the day’s judging for thirteen-inch beagles. He could hear the ring coordinator call for the dogs. The judge was a pudgy woman in a pantsuit. He checked his program against the numbers on the handlers’ arm bands and focused on Orlando Gold, number 8, a white man with a bronze tan and blond-tipped hair. He was, Rowe perceived, an elegant fellow in the pejorative sense of the word: tall and thin, wearing a form-fitting suit of a light-absorbing fabric, black velvet or velour. White shirt, straight black tie with a gold stripe—he looked like a backup singer for Elton John. He didn’t make excessive gestures, it was just that what gestures he did make were carried one-tenth of an inch too far.

  When Gold trotted down and back to show the judge the dog’s gait—it was one of Polen’s, a female—he was graceful on his feet, matching his stride to the dog’s natural movement.

  The judge inspected the beagles, opening their mouths, running her hands over their shoulders and rumps.

  Polen’s bitch came in first, and, smiling professionally, Gold grasped the blue rosette ribbon and put it in his pocket.

  Rowe followed him from the arena but lost him in the crowded exhibit hall en route to one of the grooming areas. Polen had mentioned that Gold bred and showed his own collies, so he roamed around until he found that grooming zone.

  It was a maze of cubicles, assigned one per handler or owner.

  “Do you know where I can find Orlando Gold?” he asked a woman who was currying a zonked-out-looking Pomeranian.

  “Down at the end,” she said shortly, intent on her dog. She murmured to it as she worked.

  Rowe thanked her and walked on toward the last cubicle.

  Hearing a sound inside, he paused, stood on tiptoe, and peeked over the high partition. A very large, exceedingly gorgeous collie stood on a grooming platform, its neck leashed to the safety post.

  It was the Lassie-type collie, deep-chested and proud. The head wa
s fine, the expression calm. Odd to call such a silky-looking dog a rough collie, but Rowe knew the white-and-sable outer coat was coarse to the touch. The undercoats of these dogs were thick and soft as sheep’s wool. The coat was a big part of the collie’s appeal.

  A beautiful woman with a strangely excited expression had just plugged in a large set of electric shears and was advancing on the dog.

  Although Rowe was very close, both dog and woman were unaware of him. She was a dark-skinned black woman with a trim waist and pretty calves.

  The dog looked at the woman quizzically, but held still. Its legs trembled.

  She parted the collie’s coat at its withers and switched on the shears. The dog twitched at the hornetlike sound.

  “Oh, now, you know me,” she crooned. She wore a striking black-and-white dress, like a life-sized yin-and-yang symbol, that fitted her perfectly.

  Rowe stepped into the cubicle.

  The woman sprang back and shut off the shears. “Who are you?” The hand holding the shears, he noticed, was quivering.

  He smiled and said, “You’re not supposed to be here, are you?”

  Before she could answer, a blazered security guard came in, one of the sharp-eyed ones.

  “Where’s your badges, please?”

  Rowe slapped his chest and looked down. “Damn,” he said, then smiled and extended his hand. “I’m Dr. Garner, veterinary staff.” The guard, a mustachioed older dude, hesitated, then reached out to shake.

  “Sorry about the badge, I must have left it at the clinic.” Rowe stepped to the collie, cocked his head and squinted at it, then ran his hands over the patient dog as he had seen the judges do. He felt the dog’s strong chest and shoulder muscles. “This guy here’s fine. Mrs. Robertson, let’s move on. What about your bitch over in Hall G?”

  The woman looked at him in mute gratitude.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Let’s go check that ear discharge,” he said. “I’m sure I can get to the bottom of it.”

  Lightly, he took her elbow and guided her to the nearest deserted spot, a crapping zone used by the miniatures.

  Well, Rowe reasoned to himself, she was a beautiful woman caught in an ambiguous situation, and his instinct was to get the both of them out of there. It was what good P.I.s in the movies did, all of them, and invariably it worked out for the best.

  The woman turned to him. She certainly was a dish, with a perfect complexion, a graceful neck, and not much age on her. She looked faintly familiar. Rowe noted that her panic had been replaced by relief.

  “Thank you,” she said, breathing, meaning it.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “I’m Cici Emberton.”

  How very interesting. He paused, thinking.

  She said, “Oh, you recognize me?”

  “You’re Khani Emberton’s wife?”

  “Yes”—she tossed her head with irony—“I’m Mrs. Khani Emberton, big-shot wife of the biggest self-made nigra in L.A.”

  He nodded neutrally. “My name is George Rowe. I’m thinking of doing some business with Orlando Gold.”

  “You’re not going to buy a dog, are you?” She looked genuinely alarmed.

  “I don’t know. You might as well tell me what you were doing.”

  “You’re not an actual vet.”

  “No.”

  “I was—I was—” She stopped, deciding whether to lie.

  “You were going to ruin that dog’s coat. How come?” Someone had spilled a bit of kibble on the concrete floor; she nudged the dry bits with the toe of her black-and-white shoe and said, “I suppose if I said it’s a secret, you’d threaten to go to Orlando and make up some story about me.”

  “You wanted to play a trick on him?”

  She looked him in the eye. “Not a trick. I want justice.” She glanced around. At the far end of the crap zone a handler set down a toy poodle, which squatted to make its deposit. “This isn’t a nice place to talk.”

  “It is awkward,” Rowe agreed. “Look, if you convince me that you’re really after justice, maybe I can help you out. Maybe you can help me too.”

  She smiled slightly, looking at him. Where had Emberton met her? She sure didn’t have much of South Central clinging to her. Rowe guided them to a storage room he’d spotted earlier.

  The room, really a large closet, was crammed with bales of cleaning rags and drums of antiseptic. He flipped on the light, and they sat on the bulging bales. The bales were soft, and Rowe, propping himself on an elbow in a nonthreatening posture, felt like a Bedouin in a tent.

  She noticed, and, as if to call him on it, said, “I know you have the upper hand.”

  He did, but perceived she could be quite a cat if pushed into a corner.

  “Yes, I was trying to ruin that dog’s coat,” said Cici Emberton. She wasn’t afraid of being alone in this little room with him. There was, Rowe now heard, a hint of street in her speech—“trying” sounded like “trahn.” It stood out, given how polished she looked, and how nearly perfect her grammar was. “If I shaved a nice big X in Conqueror’s fur, he wouldn’t be able to show him for a year. Wouldn’t hurt the dog, only Orlando.”

  “I see,” said Rowe.

  She folded one neat leg beneath her, smoothing her skirt. The air smelled of clean cotton. “He thinks this is Conqueror’s year. It might be, I mean did you see that dog?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s very vain about that dog. And I do believe he has some money riding on him.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Well, I won’t allow it.”

  “What did Gold do to you?”

  “Took me for a fool. And I was. I was a fool,” she mused, her voice quieting. “But you don’t mess with Cici. My last name has nothing to do with the fact that you don’t mess with me. I know what I am: I’m a child of Watts, OK? Look me up on the Internet”—grimness took over her tone—“you find that out first thing.”

  Rowe smiled, liking her.

  “Don’t give me too much of that,” she said, tipping her head back and looking at him through half-lidded eyes. “You’re a white man. You’re not going to understand.”

  “Maybe not. You don’t know me, either. You don’t know I won’t try to screw you over.”

  “I appreciate that. No, I’d like you to understand. Some-goddamn-body to understand.” She patted her foot on a rag bale. “Ragpicker at least would have been a trade my daddy could’ve done,” she mused softly. “Well, at least he gave a damn, thank the Lord.”

  Cici Emberton’s voice strengthened, and now Rowe could hear, beneath the street, the sweet inflections of the West Indies.

  “Khani and I met at a school dance. He’s a star. He loved me at first sight.”

  He nodded. “Is this where you’re going to tell me how you learned right from wrong?”

  She glared at him. “You really don’t understand, do you? Mr. Rowe, it’s been hard for me to come out from the hood!” She said it deep and blue, from her gut. “I mean, everybody wants out from the hood, right, but the hood’s your comfort zone too, you see? When I became his wife and he got so successful, I had to change. We got a big house—houses! Martinique! We had staff.” Her voice accelerated. “Suddenly I’m going to opening night at the opera and eating foy grass with chopsticks or some damn thing, trying to talk to these people. What do you talk about? You don’t talk about the rhinestone tips you’re gonna get on your fingernails, because that’s not classy. I found that out.

  “I don’t ski. We don’t have kids yet. I don’t speak Swiss or some language. The men can always talk business. Nobody thinks less of Khani because he came from the streets. But somehow, they think less of me.” Her eyes softened with hurt. “OK, I said to myself, I’ll fit in. I worked at it. Nobody knows how I’ve worked at it.”

  “Vocal coach?” intuited Rowe.

  “Yes!”

  “Fashion—uh?” he gestured, taking a further risk.

  “My tasteful outfit! Yes! Hah
a! You can spend a lot and still look like hell. There’s people who’ll help you with that.”

  In the cocoonlike atmosphere of the closet, Cici Emberton opened up, and he listened. He learned that she had observed other multimillionaire wives talking about their horses and dogs. She was afraid of horses, but she decided to get a dog that she could dote on and talk about. It had to be a special dog. One of the women had introduced her to Orlando Gold.

  Collies were making a comeback, she’d learned. “Nobody in that bunch has pit bulls, nobody.”

  Orlando Gold had made her think she was latching on to him, while all the time he was latching on to her. He’d charmed her, being refined, graceful, and white—“but easygoing, you know, an easygoing white man”—and she’d learned about dogs from him, and she’d bought a dog from him.

  “He wanted me to sleep with him, but I stopped short of that, thank the Lord!” She laughed bitterly. “That’s one thing I kept! The integrity in this ring!” She held up her rich gold band. “Orlando wanted me to invest in other dogs, show dogs, so he could win more. I said no to that too. Some of the other women, they invested, yeah, he was quite the stud. I paid him ten thousand dollars for a collie dog he said was a champion. I took the dog home and before the week is out, the thing poops on our bed. Khani was so mad! I thought the dog had a nervous problem. Poor Shasta. I take her to the vet, and the vet says, ‘This dog ain’t sick, she’s dying of old age! She’s going into organ failure, and she’s got arthritis too.’”

  Gold, Cici Emberton went on, had pumped the dog full of amphetamines. “He gave me pills to give her, vitamins. Well, they weren’t vitamins, they were speed. Soon as they ran out, she crashed. I confronted him, and he denied it. But I could tell he was lying. Tried to hand me more pills!”

  “How did you know the pills were speed?”

  “The vet told me. Should have figured it out myself. That poor thing had to be put down.”

  Of course Cici had been furious, but Gold had weasled, and wouldn’t give her any of her money back.

  “I don’t understand,” said Rowe, “why he played such a rank trick on you. Did he think you wouldn’t ever figure out the dog was old and worn out? Why not sell you a good dog?”