All That Glitters (11 page)

She cocked her head. “How do you move when pursued by a female detective?”

I didn't want to talk about Annabelle's behavior or a past brief relationship.

She brushed a shock of hair from my eyes. “Sounds like you were quite the hound as a Pinkerton, Jake Donovan.”

“I was nothing of the sort. Like Manuel said, I was always talking about the girl I left behind.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Sure you were.”

The song ended, and we returned to the table.

Manuel returned with two wineglasses and a paper sack. He removed a bottle of red wine. “The end of Prohibition can't come too soon.” He filled my glass and let me taste it. “A fabulous California wine from just up the coast.”

I nodded approval, and he filled Laura's glass. “Enjoy.” He left the bottle.

I raised my glass in a toast. “To living happily ever after.”

“Oh, we will, Jake.” She squeezed my hand. “Won't we?”

“Of course we will.” We clinked glasses.

Laura sipped the drink then leaned over the table and kissed me.

I glanced toward the far corner as Gus hid behind a menu, about as inconspicuous as a snake at a garden party.

“Jake, how are you going to go about finding Eric's killer? There are so many possibilit
ies.”

“The diagram lists those with possible motives and the opportunity to shoot Eric. So far, everyone who might have a motive appears connected to the studio. Under the guise of wanting to talk about revising the screenplay, I'll get them to talk.”

“Jake, that's…that's brilliant.” She finished her glass.

Manuel carried a steaming plate of tacos to Gus.

“
We'll
get them to talk.”

“We?”

“Don't tell me it could be dangerous. We're engaged now. We're a team. Besides, every day I'll talk to the same people you'll be talking to. In the evening, we'll share what we learned. Doesn't that sound like fun?”

I never considered investigating a murder to be fun. “It depends what you're wearing, or not wearing.”

“I'm serious. Don't forget I grew up in Queens.” She pulled a compact from her purse, glanced at the small mirror, and patted her hair. “Snooping's in my nature.”

I didn't like her involvement, but she'd talk to her coworkers whether I offered my okay or not. “Promise you'll be careful.”

“I promise.” Laura stuffed her compact in her purse.

I rose with her as she headed for the restroom.

When I sat down again, a man came from behind and slipped into Laura's chair—my old pal Pat Lonigan, the
Times
crime reporter. He tossed his straw hat at a chair beside me. “I don't want to interrupt your quiet night out, but I bumped into Annabelle Church this morning and found out she's the lead homicide detective on what everyone says is an open-and-shut suicide.”

“Small world.”

“Only it's not so open-and-shut. She says you're helping to find out who bumped off Eric Carville. Thought your gumshoe days were over.”

“And I thought you didn't like working Hollywood cases.”

“This has potential.” Pat drummed his fingers on the table. “Come on, Jake, what gives?”

“This is a high-profile case. I'd hate to see Annabelle and Gus fall on their faces.”

He rolled his eyes. “What's it to you?”

“I don't want an incompetent murder investigation to throw a curveball into Laura's picture.”

He picked up Laura's wineglass, inhaling the aroma. “Laura Wilson, she your latest squeeze?”

“My fiancée.”

“Congratul
ations.” He shook his head. “She's a fabulous-looking dame.”

“She's no dame.”

He lit a cigarette with the candle and blew smoke away from the table. “Then don't risk losing what you have.”

“I'm touched.”

If I wanted Pat on my side, I had to give him something. “The police have ruled out suicide. They suspect someone at the party shot Eric.”

“Were you there when a bullet entered his skull?”

I blew out a deep breath. Pat was my friend, but a reporter first. “The Hollywood Hotel. Before you ask, Laura and I left the party a little after eleven.”

Pat let out a hearty laugh. “You wouldn't have left so early in the old days.” He popped an olive into his mouth. “Fun bash?”

“Not for everyone.” Eric's blank eyes staring at the ceiling came to mind.

Pat dipped a chip into the hot red sauce. “A source told me they grilled you about a fight with Eric that night. What was that about?”

“Eric was sore because his old man wanted me to rewrite his screenplay.”

“Why does the law think you might've wanted to shoot him?”

“You remember Gus Connolly.” I thumbed toward Gus attacking his plate of tacos. “He's working the case.”

Pat let out a low whistle. “He'll pin it on you if he can.”

“The time frame proves I couldn't have murdered Eric.”

“There's time frames, then there's time frames.” Pat leaned forward, his elbows on the table, and spoke in a quiet voice. “How does this story sound? ‘Mystery writer grilled in death of Hollywood executive.' ”

“Like a story.”

“Yeah, but it would sell papers.” He leaned back. “I'm just saying. I wouldn't write it, not now, but that doesn't mean some other hack won't splash it on page one.”

He pulled a pad from his pocket and glanced at his notes. “I've been nosing around. The old man hired you to flesh out the screenplay Eric wrote, one Eric didn't think needed fleshing out. You got into a fistfight with him the night he was found with a bullet in the side of his head.”

I sipped the wine. “When you put it like that…”

“This ain't funny, Jake. I'll sugarcoat your involvement for now, because you and I go way back.”

“You're a real pal.”

“Don't be a chump.” Pat stuffed the notepad back into his suit pocket. “Annabelle had a crush on you back in the day, but she'd climb over her mother to further her career. She won't stop at homicide detective. She wants to be police chief someday.”

“I wouldn't bet against her.”

“If betting was legal.”

I topped off my wineglass and slid it in front of the reporter. “What can you tell me about Eric Carville?”

“You think you can find out who killed him, don't you? I'll help if you give me the story first.”

“Deal.” We shook hands.

Pat puffed again. “Eric is…was a stinker, but like his father, he loved making movies. He learned the craft on the sets and probably would have directed and produced before too long.”

“But he drank.”

“Eric had plenty of vices. This is Hollywood. The city hasn't changed much since you lived here. Eric liked to gamble, owed some dough to people who aren't too happy. Ever hear of Slick Ray Gambino?”

I thought back to the guest list. Ray Gambino's name wasn't there.

“He runs the mob on the West Coast.”

Maybe the murder hadn't been about a girl he'd done wrong. Eric Carville might have been a jerk with plenty of vices, but no one deserved to die that way. “Dead stinkers and dead saints are just as cold.”

Pat finished the wine. “Sounds like the title of your next novel.”

“I'm struggling to get a read on Todd Carville.”

“Todd's strictly a bean counter. He and Eric had vastly different visions for the studio. Todd's well connected, pals with the mayor and police chief. Ever hear of the Bum Blockade?”

“Just recently.”

“He and the police chief are behind keeping the riffraff out of L.A. They'd go over well in Europe. I heard Todd might want a future in politics, but I doubt it. But don't let his appearance fool you. He can be ruthless; the Bum Blockade is just one example. With Eric out of the way, he stands to take over the studio when the old man finally buys it, which I hear won't be too long.”

“So if one were to make a list of people who will benefit from Eric not being around, it would no doubt start with Todd.”

“Start and probably end, but Todd Carville's not an idiot. Far from it.”

“What about Eric's friends?”

The reporter chuckled. “He didn't have many, except for a string of dames.” He picked up his hat. “His funeral will no doubt be packed, out of respect for the old man, but one doesn't have to dig too deep to find a list of Hollywood types who aren't mourning his death.”

Laura approached with an air of surprise.

Pat and I rose. He crushed his cigarette in an ashtray at an empty table. “Pat Lonigan, Miss Wilson. Sorry to intrude.”

“It's a pleasure to see you again.”

“Your fiancé was just bragging about your new movie.”

“I thought Hollywood stories didn't interest you, Mr. Lonigan.”

“They do, from time to time.” He tipped his hat to Laura. “Enjoy your meal. And best of luck with the picture and your future life together with this guy.”

She slipped my arm in hers. “Thank you.”

Pat walked through the dining room, ignoring Gus Connolly, who was putting the finishing touches on his meal.

I slid the chair out for Laura as a waiter delivered our food.

She reached for her empty wineglass. “More wine, please. Anyone else following us?”

I filled her glass. “Not that I've noticed.”

Laura smoothed the napkin on her lap. “It didn't take the media long, did it?”

The fragrance of Manuel's Mexican food made my stomach growl. “Darling, it's only just begun.”

I awoke with Laura's head on my shoulder. A hint of dawn peeked through the bedroom windows as her manicured nails traced circles on my chest. A wave of guilt over downplaying my past with Annabelle kept me from responding.

Her hand traveled lower. “Something wrong?”

How else could I say it? “The lead homicide detective is in love with me.”

Laura burst out laughing. “Gus?”

“No. Annabelle. Annabelle Church. She's Gus's sergeant.”

I tried to explain Annabelle's behavior in Eric's room. I couldn't read Laura's expression. “Well?”

She sat up, slipped into her robe, and sat with her back to me. “There must've been something to your relationship that you're forgetting or not telling me.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Until now you barely mentioned her. Why is she infatuated with you…besides your good looks and charm?”

“There's something wrong with her. She was always clingy, but never this obsessive.”

She kissed my cheek. “I can't wait to meet her.”

The way the morning had started, I had expected more than a peck on the cheek, but this was Laura's day to shine.

While a cabbie waited in the lobby to drive Laura and me to the studio for her first day of filming, I glanced at the diagram of suspects. I grabbed a blanket from the bedroom and covered the table. Many of the names attached to the short spokes seemed improbable, but years of detective work taught me murderers often seemed unlikely suspects.

More than a dozen striking movie technicians, carrying signs and chanting labor slogans, blocked the studio entrance when we arrived. A handmade placard caught my eye:
Bread and Roses.
The sign brought back memories of a New England strike when I was a kid. My uncle and his coworkers had fought for dignified working conditions and fair wages.

We climbed out of the cab. I glanced down the street and confirmed we hadn't been tailed. Gus's absence didn't mean he'd lost interest. His behavior only furthered my resolve to find who killed Eric Carville. My quest to learn about Eric's enemies was about to start.

I paid the cabbie, who stuffed the bills into his shirt pocket, jammed the car into gear, and sped past the picketers. I stood between Laura and half a dozen angry strikers blocking our path. Before I had to talk our way out of trouble, two thick-necked uniformed employees slipped through the demonstrators, eliciting shouts and curses. Brandishing billy clubs, the guards led us around to a side entrance.

Inside the gate, Laura looked like a kid visiting Coney Island for the first time. I knew her well enough to realize her excitement hid an underlying nervousness. I led her away from the guards. “You know I'm only here to investigate Eric's murder.”

Truth was, I wanted more than anything to watch Laura's first day of shooting, but the last thing I needed was to add to her apprehension.

She ran gentle fingers across my face and smirked. “Aren't you going to tell me to break a leg?”

“I've never liked that particular saying.” I kissed her good-bye. “You'll be wonderful.”

One of the guards sucked in his gut and offered to show Laura to the
Midnight Wedding
soundstage. The other man led me to the administration building and told me Norman Carville's office was on the top floor.

In an open elevator, the operator sat on a stool, his head propped against the side of the elevator, snoring softly. A bead of drool stretched from the corner of his mouth to his chin and threatened to snap off. I cleared my throat, and we rode to the fourth floor. I stepped off and faced a receptionist filing her nails.

A talented artist had painted a colorful mural on the wall behind the receptionist. The painting depicted Carville Studios stars over two decades, including Christine and Roland, who no doubt approved of their larger-than-life images.

The woman snapped forward in the chair and dropped the file, clearly surprised by a six a.m. visitor. “May I help you?”

“Jake Donovan to see Mr. Carville.”

“I love your suit.” She winked and buzzed her boss.

When the studio head buzzed back, she led me toward the open door of the old man's office.

Norman grabbed his cane and struggled to his feet. “I was just about to head to the soundstage.”

The morning newspaper lay on the corner of his desk. He tossed me the front page. “The paper spelled your name correctly.”

I braced myself and scanned the story with Pat Lonigan's byline. To my relief, my name didn't show up until halfway through the story. It mentioned me as a police consultant and former Pinkerton detective. The piece focused on the financial troubles of the studios and reported detectives had ruled out suicide.

The last paragraph caught my attention. Cops were checking into the possibility that Eric's death might have been a mob hit. “The mob?”

He dismissed the thought with a wave of one hand. “Sells papers.”

I hoped Laura wouldn't see the article. With even a hint of a mob connection to Carville Studios, she'd want me to drop my investigation and lawyer up.

“There's a saying in the picture business, there's no bad publicity, but I'm afraid the next few days might disprove that.” Norman dropped the paper in the trash. “We got off to a rough start the night of the party. A studio head has to do whatever it takes to get things done.”

“That's behind us. I'm actually looking forward to working on the film.” My statement couldn't have been further from the truth.

“Splendid!”

“I hope you liked the scenes I sent you.”

“Just what the movie needed.” The old man laughed as we entered the elevator, where the operator snapped to attention. “The food fight reminds me of the old days.”

The doors opened on the first floor. Norman stepped into the lobby, stumbled, and dropped his cane.

I grabbed his arm to keep him from falling. “You okay?”

He accepted the cane from the elevator operator. “Jitters, nothing more. To tell you the truth, I'm more than a little nervous. I directed my last film five years ago, my first and only talking picture.”

I held the front door open. “Not many have your experience. I hope you were able to revise the shooting schedule to shoot the scenes I clipped.”

“Already done.” He slipped on dark sunglasses and stepped outside. “If the movie is successful, it'll change the studio forever. With the Hays Code being enforced next year, we'll emphasize comedies…w
estern comedies, mystery comedies, war comedies. I want
Midnight Wedding
to be a wacky yet sophisticated comedy. A movie that will make Laura, Christine, and Roland stars of a classic screwball comedy, leaving the public to demand more.”

Ignoring the chants of strikers out front, Norman led me away from the entrance down wide paved walkways. He proudly described the twenty-acre lot, a sprawling collection of buildings, outdoor sets, and soundstages. The bright morning sun peeked over the edges of the buildings as a bearded actor dressed like a sheikh walked a camel, which stretched its neck and tried to nibble the buttons on my jacket.

Norman tugged on my sleeve. “Stay clear of the camel. They spit.”

I pushed down the brim of my hat to shield my eyes from the bright sun. I wanted to remain friendly with the old man and build his trust. “Impressive place.”

“In 1913, I started the studio with a camera and a rented garage downtown. A year later, I couldn't make enough films to keep up with the demand. I hocked everything I had and bought the first ten acres. Been expanding ever since.”

Behind a windowless shop, actors dressed like cowboys and American Indians were shooting craps in the shade of the building. As we neared, a sheriff with a tin star and a two-day growth of beard gathered up his cash. He stuffed the winnings in his white ten-gallon hat. One at a time, the actors offered condolences to Norman on the death of Eric.

Graciously he thanked each of his workers. We turned a corner and came face-to-face with a full-sized reproduction of a pirate ship, as if it had washed ashore in the center of Los Angeles.

“In your cameraman days, did you ever think you'd run a place like this?”

“Sure. It's what I worked for, even back then. It wasn't easy. The long hours extracted a toll on Todd and Eric.” With his face reddening from the hot June sun, he led me past the ship.

“When did your sons get involved?”

“Todd showed interest from an early age. After school and on weekends, he worked as an extra or gofer on every movie he could. Eric, on the other hand”—he swallowed hard—“always seemed to be off smoking and chasing girls. It wasn't until he grew old enough to recognize how much money could be made in the business that he showed any interest.”

His face reddened even further.

I stopped beside a wooden bench shaded by a mesquite tree. “Would you mind if we sit a moment? The California sun is tough on someone from New York.”

He sat beside me and wiped the back of his neck with a handkerchief.

“What made Eric become a screenwriter?”

“I never knew he liked to write. When talking pictures became the rage, and we scrambled for screenwriters, he dropped a screenplay on my desk, a western that wasn't half bad.
Midnight Wedding
was his tenth.”

When Norman appeared to recover from the heat, I rose and followed him. Tall eucalyptus trees hid a four-story office-building façade. A dozen crew members stood in front of an inflatable ten-foot-by-ten-foot canvas cushion with a red circle in the center. A director shouted instructions into a megaphone to a man at the top of the building then called out, “Action.”

The stuntman clutched his gut and tumbled off the edge. He smacked the cushion at the edge of the circle. He climbed off to a smattering of applause from the crew, Carville, and me.

After the old man shook hands with the stuntman and the director, he led me toward two large buildings that resembled airplane hangars. A uniformed guard greeted the studio head.

I stopped outside of the soundstage door. I didn't want to intrude on Laura's set.

I blurted out the question I was sure the cops had asked him. “Who would want Eric dead?”

Norman leaned on his cane. “Can't quite shake your detective past, can you, Donovan?”

I shrugged.

“I wasn't much help when the cops asked the same question. Truth was, Eric made plenty of enemies over the years. Maybe if I'd been a better father…” The old man's lower lip trembled. “Eric drank hard, gambled too much, and chased actresses and cheap dames. Some of them were married. Last year a jealous husband tried to run him off the road on Sunset Boulevard. It's tough to admit, but writing was the only serious pursuit he had. That's why I offered him a shot with
Midnight Wedding
. Big mistake.”

“How so?”

“Eric never took pressure well. Now he's dead, and I have only myself to blame.”

“It's not your fault. Someone else decided to end Eric's life.”

The guard held the door open.

The old man stepped inside. “Come and see if the old man has what it takes to direct a scene.”

“I'd just be in the way.”

“Nonsense. It'll help your work on the screenplay. You'll get a feel for how movies are made.”

Reluctantly, I followed him into the building. It took my eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light.

Norman stuffed his sunglasses into his suit coat pocket. “When we made silent movies, this building was a noisy place, with half a dozen films being shot at the same time. We didn't have to worry about sound.”

Lights and sound equipment hung from cables. Several technicians gathered around a table of pastries that stood behind three large cameras. “Filming won't start for another half hour or so. Why don't you have a look around while I talk to the crew.”

Around the corner, Christine sat in something akin to a barber chair. A slice of cucumber lay over each eye while a makeup artist attended to her face. She briefly lifted a slice as I approached.

“Hello, tall, dark, and gorgeous.”

The man, who was in his early twenties and wore tight trousers and a pink scarf around his neck, looked my way.

“Hello, Christine.”

“I'll be just a minute.” She squeezed my hand. “This is François.”

“Can I call you Frank?”

François giggled. “He's everything you said he is, Christine.”

He picked up a brush from a makeup kit and resumed applying foundation to her cheeks. He stopped and studied me, making me very uneasy. “You should let me work on you.”

“I'm not an actor.”

“I'm just saying, a light foundation would hide some of your wrinkles, and I could cover up that scar above your right eye.”

“The scar holds special memories.”

“So keep the scar. What kind of moisturizer do you use?”