Hollywood Buzz Page 10

  ***

  My astounding evening with the Dunns at an end, I was preparing for bed, drawing on the satin lounging pajamas that traveled with me everywhere. Pale jade green, they’d been laundered so many times the color looked as though it would disappear completely with the very next washing.

  I shuffled across an oriental carpet to the wardrobe against the wall, the comfort of my favorite satin p.j.s helping me to relax. A burst of cool air suddenly swept the room, bringing on a case of goose bumps. I looked around. The sheer curtains at the open window fluttered gently. The B-4 bag on the floor caught my eye. I sighed, remembering the secret arsenal tucked inside.

  The clearance beneath the bed frame proved sufficient, and I shoved the bag deep into the dark recess, wondering if anyone at Long Beach had noted the missing .45.

  The sheets smelled fresh and felt crisp as I climbed into the bedclothes. A hand-painted porcelain lamp stood on the bedside table. I reached for the delicate chain under its silk-fringed shade. With a gentle tug, I put out the light. Another treasure from abroad, I guessed, snuggling deep under the covers, savoring the weight and warmth of the plush coverlet.

  ***

  I awoke with a start, aware the bedside lamp had been turned on. Heart beating madly, leery of laying eyes on whoever had switched it on, I pushed down the fluff of covers, forcing myself to take in the room. No one was there.

  Slowly, I inched into a sitting position. I flipped back the covers and ducked over the bed’s edge for a peek. My audible sigh filled the room. My B-4 bag had not moved.

  Wide awake and still on guard, I propped my pillows against the headboard. I sniffed deeply. A strong perfume scented the air. Jasmine from outdoors?

  I took another whiff. Joy perfume! The scent was familiar because Miss C wore it all the time.

  Before turning out the light, I noted the time. Oh-three-hundred.

  ***

  I was awakened by Ilka’s knock sometime after daybreak.

  “There is an urgent telephone call for you, édesem,” she announced from the other side of the door.

  What now? Blurry-eyed, I hopped out of bed and scurried into my robe.

  Downstairs, Ilka stood by while I picked up the receiver of the phone resting on the settee’s edge. The caller, her voice quavering with emotion, identified herself as Derrick Brody’s secretary. Mr. Brody, she stammered, would not be going with me to March Field this morning. He had died in the night.

  Chapter Seven

  The news refused to sink in. Colonel Brody dead? I’d been with him less than twenty-four hours ago. He had such a strong presence, so much energy.

  “Édesem, what is it?”

  I didn’t answer. My hand still clutched the receiver. I stared at it, transfixed.

  “Sit down a minute, édesem.”

  I released the receiver and dropped onto the settee. Shivering, I drew my robe tighter. Ilka sat next to me. I shared the sad news.

  “Brody…this name is familiar. Big name director?” Ilka asked softly. “This is too bad.” She patted my hand. “He did not go easy.”

  “What do you mean, he did not go easy?”

  Ilka’s forehead crinkled then relaxed. “A man of his age, he died too early. That is all. Was it heart attack? Accident? The dark deed of an enemy, perhaps?”

  I almost smiled at the choice of words and dramatic hush of her last guess.

  “His secretary said ‘natural causes.’ Heart attack would be a good guess, though. He’s…” I cleared my throat. “He was very intense, high-strung.”

  “I am so sorry.” Ilka gave my hand another pat. “I must go see how breakfast is coming. Anything special you would like? We have cinnamon rolls, but you would want eggs, bacon, hot cereal perhaps?”

  For the first time, I noticed the scent of yeast and cinnamon in the air. “A cinnamon roll would be great, thanks. And your famous Finn coffee.”

  Ilka smiled. “Good, then. I will see you in the breakfast room. What, in twenty minutes?”

  ***

  The breakfast room was off the dining room, the same place where we’d had our curry dinner last evening. This morning it had an altogether different look and feel. A traditional table and chairs set with pastel yellow dinnerware occupied the area where the sunken table had been. Beneath the table, an Aztec rug repeated the green, gold, and sienna tones of the South Seas tapestry on the wall.

  Sunlight streaming in through multipaned windows drew me to the opposite side of the room. Della and the men, like the table-pit, were missing in action this morning. I recalled the secretive glances around the dinner table and the curious crack-of-dawn meeting that had come up out of nowhere. What was that all about?

  Beyond the stone patio outside the bank of windows, a sweeping expanse of lawn sloped to a kidney-shaped pool. An elderly dark-skinned man, Mexican, I thought, dressed from hat to shoes in white, was digging a hole in a grassy strip alongside the poolside cabaña. A plant attached to a section of lattice and swathed in white cheese cloth rested in a nearby wheelbarrow. Its root ball contained in burlap protruded slightly over the wheel-barrow’s edge.

  The gardener’s shovel bit dirt again. A headstone appeared in my mind’s eye. I shivered. My mother’s headstone. Memories flooded my brain. Her funeral. A sorrow that cut to my core, draining my slight ten-year old frame of all feeling. The debilitating numbness that followed. The self-blame.

  Outdoors, the gardener pushed the wheel-barrow close to the freshly dug hole. He lifted the bundled plant, removed the burlap, positioned his burden in the dirt. Wiping his brow with his sleeve, he began removing the cheesecloth shroud. It caught and he tugged to clear the snag.

  If I hadn’t been so stubborn, insisting on wearing the patent Mary Jane’s, not the brown Oxfords she insisted were better for my feet, we wouldn’t have arrived late at the church for rehearsal. She wouldn’t have been frazzled, distracted. She wouldn’t have tripped, crashing through the loose railing to fall from the choir loft.

  A hot stream trickled down my cheek. I blinked. Another tear rained as I heard Ilka’s words—Did not go easy. Died too soon. My mother’s tragic fate; Brody’s unexpected end. The finality of death left a hollowness like no other.

  The gardener had freed the cloth and begun filling in the space around the plant. A bougainvillea. A splash of fuchsia petals against white stucco. My breath caught at the glory.

  “Édesem…”

  I dabbed my cheeks and turned from the windows. Ilka was at the table with a laden tray. I asked about the room’s transformation. As she relieved the tray of its contents—a plate of cinnamon buns, glasses of orange juice, and a coffee pot—she explained. An electric “gizmo,” she called it, was mounted on the wall next to the tapestry. The gizmo controlled a floor panel, opening and closing it over the sunken table and seating pit. The Dunns had come up with the idea a year or so ago, and Ilka had supervised the installation. Unfortunately, she couldn’t demonstrate the invention without removing the current table, chair, and rug arrangement first.

  “Was a mess to put in, for sure,” Ilka said in her lovely lilting voice, after we were seated. “And, as you now understand, a not so easy design to use. But, the Mr. and Mrs. so enjoy entertaining. Devising menus from little-known parts of the world is part of the pleasure. The sunken table it gives them a unique place for serving the foreign fare.” Ilka sipped her orange juice. “I wonder what part of the world—or U.S.—the Mr. and Mrs. took off to this time.”

  “Huh?”

  “Yes. They are gone. Off on one of their trips. A note they left it explains everything.”

  “Everything? But you just said you wondered where in the world they’d headed off to.”

  “Where they go is not important, édesem. It is no business of mine. What I need to know, they wrote: We will be gone for awhile; unexpected committee work has come up. By such a message I am to know the house it is in my care.”

  “Unexpected committ
ee work? Gone for awhile? That’s it?”

  Ilka shrugged. “Igen, yes. The Mr. and Mrs. they travel much, often at the drop of a hat. I grew up among Gypsies, remember? Such restlessness I understand.” She lifted a bun and nodded, politely waiting for me to take a bite of mine.

  “Scrumptious,” I murmured, savoring the yeasty sweet cinnamon flavor.

  We ate in silence while I pondered the Dunns’ departure. It seemed so sudden. Then I recalled Della’s suitcase on the bed and the lead she gave D.B. at dinner concerning the crack-of-dawn meeting. I took a swallow of strong Finn coffee. Had this morning’s hasty leave-taking been in place all along? Had she actually been packing, not unpacking?

  Ilka wiped her mouth with her napkin. “Usually they telephone when they can,” she added. “It is a fine system. I have much freedom for tryouts and classes.”

  “I forgot. How’s Mr. Lugosi’s sciatica? Did you cure it? How’d the blood drive go?”

  Ilka’s face went slack. “The remedy I tried, it did not ease the pain. Today I will brew something else.” Her expression transmuted. She glowed. “The blood drive, though, it was monster success.” She read my expectant look. She blushed. “Yes, Litvik was there.”

  “Hooray. You’re going to get this part, I know.” I swallowed the last bite of my bun. “Uh, something strange happened in my room last night.” Ilka stared expectantly. “The lamp next to my bed switched on by itself. Around 0300. It woke me up.”

  “Yes?” Ilka prodded.

  “No one was in the room with me, but there was a smell of perfume in the air. Joy perfume.”

  Ilka’s cup paused mid-air. She lowered it to settle unsteadily into its saucer. “This house, it is full of antiques. The lamp it is old. The wiring it may be frayed. I must remove the lamp, have it checked.”

  “What about the Joy?”

  Ilka shrugged. “A mystery. Perfume maybe was spilled into the socket long ago. Yes, then maybe heat from the light bulb or the wiring it stirred up the odor. The Mrs. buys things, expects them to work…”

  “Uh-huh…” I checked my watch. “I gotta go—”

  Ilka’s expression relaxed. She smoothed her platinum wave. “This evening it is Lia’s night off. I am fixing the dinner. Gunnar will be here. Will you?”

  “Can’t.” I acted coy. “I have a date.”

  ***

  I swung the general’s Packard through the S-curves of Benedict Canyon, absorbing the serenity and beauty of the early morning hour and lush surroundings. My curiosity over the Dunns’ hasty departure returned, but not for long. The loopy asphalt road cut a path through thick ferns and moist greenery. I took a long draw of earth-spiced air, smiling as a pleasant sensation spread through me.

  I was looking forward to spending more time with Sam Lorenz in the evening ahead. He’d been going out of his way, trying to help me feel at home in the moviemaking world. He also seemed sincere about wanting my project—me—to succeed. And what about our lunch at MGM? I breathed deeply again, savoring my thoughts and the damp blend of soil and foliage. He seemed genuinely interested in me. But was his interest more than professional? Surprising myself, I hoped that it was.

  At the mouth of the ravine, the terrain flattened out and I steered the Packard through a neighborhood of opulent Beverly Hills homes, their neat lawns bordered with colorful flowers. Shortly after, I was on a commercial strip, observing small businesses coming to life. I followed Wilshire, then LaCienega. On Washington Boulevard, I pulled over near Gus’ newsstand.

  This morning, Gus wore the same magenta pants and cerise sweater vest he’d had on yesterday, but instead of turquoise, today’s shirt was chartreuse. He stood at one end of the kiosk, talking and smoking cigarettes with the brash MP I’d run up against at Fort Roach. Somehow, the sight of Gus with MP Winwar was a letdown. But at least Winwar was keeping his creeping peepers in check today. In fact, he was avoiding any eye contact whatsoever. What juicy news had the two so riveted, I couldn’t help wondering.

  Winwar flicked me a furtive glance. Gus waved and hollered he’d be right over. I checked my watch and when I looked up, Winwar was sauntering in the direction of Fort Roach. Gus, madly adjusting his tweed cap in a futile attempt at getting it to sit properly atop his disheveled white hair, hurried over.

  Gus’ expression, jubilant at seeing me, caved at my mention of Colonel Brody’s untimely death. His brow furrowed and his eyebrows, fuzzy white caterpillars, met in an inverted V at the center. “You knew him well?”

  “The colonel was going to fly with me to March Field this morning,” I informed him, sadly.

  Gus shook his head and we stood in awkward silence for a moment.

  “There is small notice on page two of the Times,” he said, gesturing to the newspaper display below the kiosk’s counter. “Story broke late last night. Too late for much of a report. But I’ll bet you the dirt it all will be splashed across the front pages tomorrow.”

  I agreed absently, momentarily distracted by the rapid movement of his brown eye and the vacant stare of the icy blue one.

  “So, you talked with the secretary,” Gus said, continuing. “What did she say?”

  I shrugged. “Not much. She—Myra—was all torn up. Her voice broke several times while we talked.”

  Gus’ good eye scrunched in a way that told me he had something to add, but wasn’t certain whether he should.

  “What? What is it?”

  “Did Myra not say anything about her disagreement with the officials?”

  “Officials?”

  “The police. The coroner.”

  “Myra told me Colonel Brody died of natural causes. That was pretty much it.”

  Gus stared at me, both eyes completely still. “That is not what I hear is suspected by the coroner.”

  I recalled Myra’s message: They’re calling it death by natural causes. The choice of words, the tone of her voice. Yes. It was possible she’d been implying that there was uncertainty about the manner of his death; perhaps that it wasn’t so natural.

  “What are you saying?” My mind skipped forward. “He was murdered? Who says?”

  Gus cleared his throat. “I have a source. But we will learn all there is to know about the circumstances of the colonel’s death in a few days when the autopsy report it is finished.”

  Another customer arrived. Gus left to help him and I grabbed a Hollywood Reporter. My gaze drifted to the left-hand column. Today’s article highlighted the Masquers Club where, on Saturday nights, top names in the picture business entertained, mingled with, waited on, and supplied autographs to servicemen. Meal costs and entertainer time were donated. I’d heard of the Hollywood Canteen, a similar charitable operation, but wasn’t familiar with this night spot. A ping of excitement rattled my thoughts. Where would Sam take me on our date this evening?

  I glanced quickly through the rest of the paper, thinking I might see something about the blood drive. But as was the case with Brody’s demise, the news was too fresh to make the print.

  The customer left and I paid for the Reporter, including tip. I glimpsed my watch. “0900,” I sighed. “The time I was supposed to meet up with Colonel Brody.”

  Gus, wagging his head sadly, selected a creamy rosebud from the can of flowers on the stall’s ledge. Offering the flower—a ravishing specimen, its petals just beginning to unfold—he spoke with surprising eloquence. “Whatsoe’er hath been, there still must be, room for another rose.”

  A beautiful sentiment. And a remarkable discovery: Gus recited poetry! I accepted the blossom with a smile.

  “Florence Earl Coates,” he added, bowing his head.

  We spent a few moments discussing Frankie’s static condition, but then I had to leave.

  “Please let me know when you hear anything new.” Gus watched me go.

  ***

  The clacking of typewriters came to a halt, all conversation ceased, and nine sets of eyes zeroed in on me as I wove through the typing
pool, en route to my personal station.

  I placed Gus’ rose in a water glass on my desk. Before I could even get to my chair, the gals were gathered round me, clucking about the shock of Colonel Brody’s death.

  “The papers say he kicked from natural causes,” spouted a gal with Betty Boop eyes and a voice breathy with excitement. “But we heard the police think otherwise.”

  “Oh?” Had they heard something Gus hadn’t?

  What they had were their fast and loose theories. The speculation volleyed.

  “Investigators at the scene must have discovered a telltale mark of lethal mischief,” lobbed one. “Gunshot wound,” fired another. “Evidence of stabbing,” thrust a third. The killer? Motivation? “A rejected actor—or actress—did it,” spewed a fourth.

  All eyes turned expectantly on me. “What have you heard? What do you think?”

  “I’m clueless.” Which was more or less true.

  The ladies lingered, wanting more. I turned to some papers on my desk, leaving the crime-solving brigade to shuffle back to their typewriters, their parting glances reflecting disappointment as if I had somehow failed them.

  After taking care of a few minor things, I placed a call to Miss C in Washington, who was not in. She and the general would be attending numerous meetings to lobby support for WASP militarization, and she’d warned me that it might be difficult for us to connect. So much so, that before leaving Long Beach, we’d scheduled a call for tomorrow. Still, I’d hoped to catch her. I wanted to share my concerns regarding the rushes, and I’d also hoped to enlist her help in securing a plane for the ferrying shoot Novara had suggested. Something told me that if I procured a plane that matched his pumped-up virility, he’d be more open-minded about the ideas I’d begun formulating for improving his—our—film.

  Back at my desk, I located the WASP movie script, skimmed through it again, making notes, before heading out to Clover Field in Santa Monica.

  ***

  The road that led to Clover Field Airport, where Miss C had left her plane while she was away, appeared sooner along Washington Boulevard than I expected. I took a few turns, steering the Packard through a residential pocket.