All That Glitters (3 page)

The Carvilles might be important men in Hollywood, but from my travels around the country, I learned important men were usually little men with big offices, plenty of dough, and lots of people around to tell them how important they were.

Nevertheless, for Laura's sake, I shook his hand like he was a former army buddy. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Carville.”

He pumped my hand. “Jake Donovan. The mystery writer?”

“That's right.”

“My old man is a huge Dashiell Hammett fan.”

I swallowed my resentment at his intentional insult. “So am I.”

“Did you and Miss Wilson meet on the train?”

I glanced at Laura. “Miss Wilson and I knew each other in New York but lost touch after I moved to Florida a few years ago.” I'd done far too much explaining.

Christine gave me the once-over, as I suspected she did to most men she met. She flashed a knowing grin. She spoke in a silky voice that matched her hair. “Methinks he doth protest too much.”

Laura let out a nervous chuckle. “Jake and I are old pals.”

Eric rubbed his paws together. “Laura, we have a full day planned for you. I'll personally escort you on a studio tour, so you can get familiar with wardrobe and makeup. We'll stop by my older brother's, the bean counter's, office. Of course, you already met Todd in New York.”

“He's a very pleasant gentleman.”

Eric snickered. “If you say so. You'll meet my father, Norman, at the kickoff party for
Midnight Wedding
.”

“When is that?” she asked.

“Tonight.”

Tonight? So much for the evening's planned proposal.

“It was a pleasure meeting all of you.” I tipped my hat toward Laura, hoping she'd remember we were staying at the Hollywood Hotel. “I enjoyed seeing you again, Miss Wilson. You made what would've been a boring train trip quite entertaining.” That was the truth.

She smiled. “I'll give you a ring the first chance I get.”

“If you don't, I will.”

Christine offered a well-manicured hand. “A pleasure meeting you, Mr. Donovan.”

Without shaking my hand, Eric dismissed me with a nod while Roland tagged along as the group walked away. When they reached the exit, Laura glanced back with a helpless shrug.

I reached inside the bag and removed the ring box. I opened it, imagining the diamond on the third finger of Laura's hand. Now I wasn't certain when I'd be able to place it there.

Some plans play out as smooth as a freshly lacquered bowling lane. Mine was playing out as smooth as sun-weathered paint. Still, I had responsibi
lities to take care of—about sixty thousand words to write on the novel I'd barely started. I stuffed the ring in my pocket, grabbed the bag, and went in search of a taxi.

Outside, the familiar low-hanging haze muted the mid-morning sun. Three cabs waited for a half-dozen passengers. By the time I reached the curb, the last of the cabs drove off. “Damn.” I glanced at my watch, waiting for another ride.

The purr of a powerful engine rounding the terminal caught my attention. A sporty blue convertible with plush leather seats screeched to a stop at the curb. Christine Brody sat clutching the wheel of the Ford Roadster. Showing plenty of leg, she peered above her dark sunglasses. “I'm not sure where you're going, Mr. Donovan, but I'd be happy to help you get there.”

I hesitated getting into the glitzy car driven by one of Hollywood's most notorious dames. I didn't want to offend Laura's costar my first day in L.A., so I stepped on the running board, tossed the bag behind the seat, and climbed in.

Christine's short skirt was hiked above her knees, making me realize Laura would've preferred I wait for a cab. Silver high heels lay beside her feet on the floorboard. Driving barefoot, she popped the clutch and mashed down on the accelerator, squealing tires. Christine swerved around a black Model T belching blue acrid smoke and darted into traffic.

I clutched my fedora to my head while the warm June air swept over the sporty car and buffeted the actress's blond hair.

“Where to, Mr. Donovan?”

“The Hollywood Hotel.”

The way her lip curled in disgust, I might as well have said a downtown flophouse. “That old dive?”

“It's full of history.” Laura picked the hotel because of its proximity to Carville Studios, but I couldn't admit that to Christine.

“Alone?” Her suspicion from the train station returned.

“Alone.”

The drive through the city made it clear the Great Depression hadn't skipped Los Angeles. Shops were boarded up, others just abandoned. There seemed to be a soup kitchen on every other corner. At the Sunfax Mart, where I used to shop, two dozen men waited beside a sign reading
Free Coffee and Doughnuts for the Unemployed
. Yet here I was, sitting next to a rich actress in a flashy car.

On Santa Monica Boulevard, Christine described growing up in Toledo, and entering a beauty pageant in high school and coming in second. The day after graduation, she dyed her hair blond, left her family behind, and caught a train to Hollywood. She landed small roles in silent films, playing chorus girls and hookers, but she didn't really learn to act until she appeared in a couple of plays.

By the time talking pictures came out, the theater had taught Christine to become the character or transform the character into the person she'd become. Her sultry appearance and her ability to deliver dialogue with emotion landed her a contract with Carville Studios. In her first talkie, she played a struggling actress who survived by engaging in a long-term affair with a married man. Promiscuous-dame roles made her a lot of dough, but enforcement of the Hays Code threatened to change all that.

The more she talked, the more Christine's glamorous-actress persona faded. She was a friendly, carefree, independent woman. Hollywood gossip columns were just that, gossip. In no time, unsubstant
iated rumors about Laura might hit the papers, so I withheld judgment on Christine's reputation with men, particularly her costars.

“Hold on.” She swerved around a delivery truck and ran a red light.

I braced both feet against the floorboard and held my hat. “You're not joining the others at the studio?”

“Today is reserved for Laura Wilson.” She bit off the last two words; then her face relaxed, and she let out a laugh I couldn't read.

“I'm sure you'll enjoy working with her.”

“You know that because…you and Laura
are
involved. I thought as much.” Her dress slid even higher up her thigh as she shifted and turned onto a palm-tree-lined highway.

The last thing I wanted was for Laura's costar to spread rumors. “I said you'd like working with her because Laura and I've been friends since high school.”

“Laura must've been the prettiest girl in school, and you're quite a prize yourself.”

I ignored the compliment. “We dated some but drifted apart after I left for the war. When I came home, I talked my way into a job as a Pinkerton. I moved from office to office around the country while she focused on her career.”

“Yet neither of you ever married.”

“We remained friends and kept in touch, but by the time I returned to New York, her career had taken off and she was too busy for a relationship.” Christine didn't appear sold on my explanation. “I'm sure you can relate.”

“I'm supposed to believe two friends since high school just happened to catch the same train to Los Angeles.” Christine patted my leg. “Baby, I don't care who Laura Wilson sleeps with…but the studio will.”

“The Carvilles control your love life?”

“The studio controls everything, or you don't work. That includes not being seen in public with anyone who isn't a part of the old man's publicity plan.”

“Old man?”

“Norman Carville, the studio's founder and taskmaster. Even his two sons avoid him as much as possible.”

“So you and Roland Harper's relationship…”

“Relations
hip?” Christine patted my knee. “Roland's hardly my type. I'm not involved with anyone, presently.”

I was in love with Laura. Christine's flirtatious behavior made me as comfortable as a lobster in a restaurant aquarium.

“You and Dashiell Hammett are my favorite authors. I hear he's working on a screenplay for something called
The Thin Man
.”

“You're a mystery fan?”

She fluffed her hair. The platinum shimmered in the afternoon sun. “There's a brain under these blond locks. Things get pretty boring between takes on the set. Actors who don't read end up drinking much too early in the day.”

“Dashiell and I used to work together as Pinkerton detectives. We still keep in touch. He told me
The Thin Man
is far different from his serious mysteries,
Maltese Falcon
and
Red Harvest
. It's a mystery, but also a romantic comedy.” I didn't share Dashiell based Nick Charles on himself, or at least the kind of guy Dashiell would like to be—a wealthy man with few responsibi
lities and the ability to drink early and often. He based Nora Charles not on his wife, but his longtime lover, playwright Lillian Hellman.

Christine's eyes narrowed. “I'd kill to be in a hit comedy, but word is MGM has already outbid old man Carville for the rights to a book that hasn't even been released yet! Scuttlebutt says MGM wants William Powell to play the lead, with Myrna Loy as his wife. Myrna Loy! She's way too nice.” She squeezed my hand. “I need a successful comedy to change my bad-girl image.”

“
Midnight Wedding
is a comedy.”

“But I still play a bad girl.” Christine's vulnerable expression revealed her insecurity. “Laura's the virgin and gets most of the laughs.”

Christine stopped at a red light. Two college-age men crossing in front of us stared at the flashy roadster. One of them pointed to Christine and ran to the side of her car. “Miss Brody…would you, would you sign my…my…”

She removed her glasses and gave him the once-over. “Your what, darling?”

He frantically patted the pockets of his shirt then pulled out a pen and offered his hand. “My palm?”

Christine signed his hand and returned the pen. The light turned green, and a cab behind us honked.

“Gosh, thanks.” He stepped back and stared at his palm, giving me a look like I was the luckiest guy in town.

Christine waved, shifted gears, and sped through the intersection.

“Must be irritating being hounded by fans.”

“Darling, when folks stop asking, I'll start worrying.”

She pulled into the parking lot of the Hollywood Hotel and shut off the engine. “Have you taken a look at the
Midnight Wedding
screenplay?”

I read every line nearly a dozen times from New York to Los Angeles. “Laura let me read it…during a layover in Kansas City.”

“Did you enjoy the
layover
?”

I couldn't help but chuckle.

She brushed a shock of hair from her eyes. “I've read all your novels. You write dialogue that's crisp, funny, and dripping with suspense. That's what the movie needs. Would you be interested in punching up the script? I mean, if Dashiell can do it…”

I had no intention of intruding on Laura's world. “I don't have the time.”

“Do you…do you
have time
to come with me to the party tonight? I hate to attend studio soirées unescorted.”

Was she serious?

“Unless Laura would mind.”

Of course Laura would mind. “That's not an issue.”

I listed a number of reasons why I couldn't or shouldn't go. I needed to work on my novel, which was true. I was expecting a call from my editor, Mildred, God forbid. My reasons sounded like excuses.

Christine's face reddened, and a tear slid down her cheek. She started the car and stared straight ahead. “Don't forget your bag in back.”

I'd offended Laura's costar, something I was determined to avoid. “I'm being silly. It would be an honor to accompany you to the party, Miss Brody.”

“Christine.” She startled me with a kiss on the cheek. “I'll pick you up at seven.”

Holding the bag, I watched her drive off. Releasing a tear had been an act, and a damn good one. How would I explain I'd accepted Christine's invitation to Laura?

The day hadn't turned out at all the way I'd planned. Instead of finally getting engaged to Laura Wilson, I'd be attending a party with one of Hollywood's flashiest dames. Laura would understand. Sure she would.

The hotel clerk handed me a key and a folded phone message from Laura, apologizing for leaving me at the terminal. She hoped I understood she wouldn't be able to leave the party until late.

I rode the elevator to the third floor. The first good news since I stepped off the train was the discovery of a spacious suite. It was everything I'd hoped it would be, including a balcony with a view of the Hollywood sign. A mahogany desk the perfect size for my Underwood had a radio and a telephone. A queen-sized bed sat in a spacious bedroom.

The luggage from the train station had arrived intact, neatly stacked beside a small dining table outside the open bedroom door, where a bottle of French champagne sat in a frosty bucket of ice. Beside the bottle was a card with the studio logo on it, signed by Eric Carville. The champagne reminded me how people who ran Hollywood believed some laws, particularly Prohibition, didn't apply to them.

I paced the room, trying to figure out how to get out of this mess. I couldn't cancel my plans with Christine without causing problems for Laura. What was I supposed to do, show up on the arm of the famous platinum blonde? I couldn't think of a way to contact Laura at the studio without arousing someone's suspicion about our relationship.

I spent the rest of the afternoon unpacking as best I could. When I finished, I checked the desk clock. It was time to get ready for the Carville party. Could the day get any worse?

After a shower, I changed into a dinner jacket, dreading the night ahead of me. Instead of spending the evening at Manuel's, proposing to the woman I'd loved since I was a teenager, I had to attend a bash with rich snobs, the kind of party I'd always detested when I'd lived in L.A. Worse, I'd be escorting an actress notorious for collecting men, a dame who hadn't hidden her interest in me, unless that had been an act, like her tear. My buddy Gino would laugh at my “predicament.”