Murder Makes a Comeback

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 3

Even Howard Carter, though doing his utmost to appear nonchalant, had been unable to withhold a low whistle to himself, for that evening, Camelot never seemed more beautiful; Miss Dumas was truly a gifted hostess. The air was heady with the perfumed breeze of thousands of fragrant flowers from the gardens and the bountiful arrangements placed, seemingly, everywhere. Ands everywhere he looked, there was almost too much for his senses to record. He’d never seen such luxury, such beauty, such celebrities! Was this really what he’d missed, all those times he’d let Will supervise his crew?

Some costumes, he noted, were almost works of art, such as the revealing one of “Leda and the Swan.” Its fake swan’s neck swirled in an erotic embrace around a perfect body swathed in nude-colored net and tiny feathers, encasing in its caress that Hungarian star, the blonde screen goddess, Magda Keller. Movie stars, studio heads, important politicians – it seemed everyone was there. Then he spied a stunning tall and slim woman who looked familiar, Valerie Bruce! She’d never quite made it as a star, a bit more second-tier, not having had a long run in the movies, but he thought the old gal looked just great! With Valerie, he noticed, was an extremely handsome young Man. Actually, he thought to himself, maybe a little too handsome. And, definitely, too young.

*“Don’t pout so, darling,” suggested Valerie. “You’ll get lip wrinkles.” In the pocket of ensuing silence, Valerie knew that it had some effect on her vain and ambitious Toddy.

He stole a quick glimpse of his reflection in a nearby silver champagne bucket, all the while flicking his chestnut-colored hair into a hint of casual disarray.

“But Val, honey, we’ve talked about our cruise for months. I can’t believe you forgot to book our passage. We’d both looked forward to it!”

“Well, obviously, one of us has, darling,” she countered, a slight acidic edge to her throaty voice. “But I didn’t ‘forget,’ as you put it. How could I? It’s all you ever talk about. And let me tell you, dear heart, it’s gotten a bit tiring snuggling up to a virtual travel agency! I told you, it’s all a matter of timing. I have certain investments and, uh, dividends coming to me. I can’t disturb my capital now, at least not to the effect you’re suggesting…!”

“I’m suggesting! Why, you were the one who…!”

“Oh, Toddy, you know what I mean. It’s just not the right time for me, money-wise.” She sighed disgustedly. “There! Satisfied? A gentleman wouldn’t have forced me to say it.”

“So, now I’m not a gentleman?”“I didn’t say that. Of course you are,” she answered, adding to herself, “the best that money can buy.” She reached up her arms to his broad shoulders which towered above her and, sounding more vulnerable than she wished, added, “Now, just be patient, darling. I might be able to lay my hands on a bit more ready cash after all – an idea I have. Just a little more time, okay? Hmm?” She hated herself in that moment, feeling like someone asking for an extension of credit on an overdue bill; yet, still, she purred in his ear.

“Time? Baby, that’s all I can give you, and you know it.” Then, hearing how harshly his words might have been misinterpreted, he added, more seductively, “but, darling, once I get my break, you’ll see! Anything, anything you want.” He paused, oblivious to the skeptical look on her face. “Say, by the way, any word yet about that screen test for me? You promised to look into it…”

How she hated these discussions, so wounding to her vanity and pride. Why couldn’t he just be her lover and not bother her with questions about arranging screen tests (though she had implied the promise of getting him one) and, always, talk of money! Such bad taste, really. If only he weren’t so transparently ambitious, she thought, she might even kid herself into believing he really cared. Hmm, she saw just then an incredibly handsome bronzed face pass by……. No, she thought, she’d better still try to hold onto this one, not that she couldn’t replace him. It was just that, lately, such accomplishments had become more difficult. So tiring. No fun, really. And, so expensive. Once, her beauty alone would have been enough to get her any man she wanted; then, later, at least her fame would have assured it. Now, having survived a few bad investments (and that horrendous Depression!), and being long retired from the screen, she had to offer… what? Promises. Yes, she decided, she’d better keep him.

“Oh, darling, didn’t I tell you? How silly of me! I was chatting with… well, I shouldn’t really say, but keep this a secret, just for now… with L.B., and I should have a date set up for your test very soon.”

“Really?” then he added, a hint of suspicion in his voice, "When?"

Val stalled, catching sight of Magda with her exquisite figure and famed legs, perfectly molded and revealed by her feathered “Leda and the Swan” costume, its delicate halter of a satin-stuffed swan’s head embracing her neck. She envied her, not for her looks nor fame; rather, she was pretty damn sure Magda never had problems with her men. Nor, her women.

“I think I’ll know something by, uh… next week,” she lied.

Damn! She should have said at least ten days! Now he’d be pestering her again before even the week was out. Maybe she could invent another delay if she could just get close enough to L.B., just to say hello, anything. But first, she’d have to shake off Toddy, or else, surely, he’d insist on an introduction. She had to time it just right. Besides, she could see L.B. was chatting with that silly Clara Weeks.“Darling, I seem to have run dry,” she said, giving him one of her more seductive looks, “would you be a pet and fetch me another drink?”

Of course he would.

*

Martin held Lynn tightly, his body enveloped, then melted into hers, like two jigsaw pieces cut to fit.

“Martin, really, I don’t think I should…” was all she managed to say before her words were smothered in his hard and smoldering kiss.

He gently brushed away a stray lock of hair from her forehead, further revealing her now-glistening eyes. “Don’t think; just…stay.” He nibbled her ear and felt her head nod yes. At first, they made love with the wary tenderness of two who had been hurt before, but soon allowed themselves to escape the wild, animal passions they’d sought in vain to contain. Their bodies rippled, then shuddered with the shock waves of released passion. Intense. Fever pitch. Wonderful. A storm of love.

*At Robin and A.J.’s party, the small, pouter-pigeon figure was having far more fun than anyone might suspect, had they seen in repose the wren-like brunette matron in, say, a library. Conservatively, if dully, garbed as Hester Prynne of “Scarlet Letter” fame, she nevertheless wore a jarringly wispy hairdo, swept back into a tight low bun, though, granted, offset nicely by sedate sapphire clips at her ears (though hardly of the period). Despite her off-putting schoolmarm looks, Clara Weeks was no librarian; rather, the well-known (she’d say “famous”) author of a dozen “romantic novels,” though she’d loathe to call them that – it made them sound so … cheap. And, if nothing else, Clara valued her literary contributions very highly. After all, it was after the publication of her first book, “Twenty-One Days," that, in lieu of the film rights sold to Hollywood, certified her acclaim as the world’s first top expert on "S.A." “S.A.” was the cute euphemism she’d coined in her book, a coy reference to “s*x appeal.” It had been considered quite daring in its day to speak or write of such a thing, all the more so when done by a lady. And Clara, unlike more lurid novelists that would follow in her wake, always conducted herself as a lady. Nevertheless, “Twenty-One Days” had been a vivid enough teaser to appeal to the newly emancipated minds of women, who only the year before (1920) had finally been awarded the right to vote!

Clara had become a Hollywood fixture ever since. Behind her prim and somewhat pompous façade, however, there was always the genteel suggestion of a leer. Her last novel had been five years ago, yet, somehow, she’d made herself seemingly valuable to the studio executives. More than one career had suffered after a few of her well-placed wicked words were whispered into the ear of an insecure studio head. All she had to do was merely imply an actor or actress just didn’t have “that certain something" (the movie title given to the film of her “Twenty-One Days”) and a career floundered into oblivion. Clara’s aphrodisiac was power.

She had a wonderful time that evening, as she always did when supplied with an attentive audience. Of course, she realized fully that having just been seen talking with L.B., though only for a few minutes, had greatly enhanced their interest in her. Little did her now eager audience of sycophants realize all she’d asked him for was his studio commissary’s recipe for chicken soup, fabled to have once been his mother’s. L.B. had been flattered, promising to mail it to her. More importantly, everyone had noticed, Clara having been clever enough to whisper her request intimately into his ear. Like moths to the flame, they now began their fluttering orbit in her glow.

“Well, of course, not everyone has S.A. One simply either has “that certain something” or one doesn’t. It’s all a matter of opinion, though I guess if anyone should be able to judge, I should.” She affected an innocent giggle.

A young, pretty girl spoke. “What about Magda, Miss Weeks? Has she got S.A.?”

There was a slight rustle in the crowd; the bold starlet obviously didn’t understand the rules. One was never so blatant as to put Clara publicly on the spot with a specific name! Normally, on those rare occasions when such rudeness had occurred, Clara simply evaded the issue, often changing the subject entirely. But tonight, she knew her crowd of listeners was a fickle sort, easily lost to others; therefore, this time she allowed such indiscretion to go unchecked. Her vision scanned the terrace till once again she spied that lovely exotic, known often as only Magda, Hollywood’s mysterious Hungarian femme fatale.

Magda was S.A. personified! That was the one “given” of all her film roles, whether dripping in lace, shot through mysterious veils, anything that would show to advantage her gorgeous facial bone structure, notably her hollow cheeks. No, Magda’s s*x appeal was undeniable and the brazen starlet who’d queried Clara knew it. What the others hadn’t realized, however, especially the younger ones, was that Clara had never forgotten hearing Magda’s derisive laughter when it had once been suggested she again film one of Clara’s novels. Magda had actually laughed (laughed!) and said, with her inimitable lisp, that Clara’s work was “twash.” No, Clara never forgot a thing like that.

The starlet repeated her question.

Clara took notice of Magda chatting with (as columnist Elvira Priest had once written) “Everyone’s favorite romantic comedienne,” Paulette Petite, tonight dressed as George Sand, a high silk top hat framing her Dutch bobbed hair and lovely heart-shaped face. Odd, thought Clara, to see the usually fluttery and oh-so-feminine Paulette attired in the mannish garb more often a conceit worn by Magda.

“Oh, no, Magda just oozes S.A.,” responded Clara. “A pity it seems to have lost its sense of …direction.” There were some amused gasps.

“Well, I think she’s utterly beautiful, like some kind of goddess,” interrupted Lizzie. “And her costume is scrumptious! Why, it has S.A. written all over it!” Then she sighed, “I only wish I could wear something like that.”

Since Lizzie was Robin’s sister, after all, no one dared disapprove. Clara, feeling she’d somehow just lost a point or two, quickly tried to change the subject. Predictably, the crowd drifted on.

Clara sipped from a fresh cocktail, placed in her hand with a vicious goodwill by one of the handsome actor-waiters supplied by the caterer. Odd, she thought, how even being handed a drink, in this town, becomes an audition. But she had more pressing concerns on her mind, for none of the studio heads had picked up the option she’d sought for her latest film treatment, garnered, if truth were known, from notes on what had remained an unfinished novel. She was sure A.J. would have picked it up, if only Robin hadn’t retired. A.J.’s Glazy Productions was now but a shell of its former importance, having been confined to the occasional foreign distribution of Robin’s old films. After all, A.J. had only gone into the movie business, in the first place, to give Robin her career, though often resulting in Robin being miscast in overproduced vehicles and out of step with the times, like, she shivered to recall, that terrible musical, “Pretty Peggy O’Neill.”

*

An hour of fitful sleep later, Martin stirred. Lynn had just licked his ear, giving him a pleasant shiver. Nevertheless, he had to consciously fight off the effect of his lack of sleep, the wine, and even the darkness of his stuffy hotel room. Despite the rescue of his body’s calling upon its last vestige of stamina, his mind’s eye still dreamt, savoring its own rushes, viewing a scene from some as-yet-unwritten screen treatment…

CUT TO: Something had scared off “the Sandman”; either that, or he’d just been left for dead. Now, coming to, judging from how he felt, both were possibilities. Alone on the roof, he heard first only labored breathing, then his heart’s beating; yet, oddly, felt no fear. His lips brushed something warm, his eyes fluttered open, and he felt, coming from below the ledge to which he clung, a strange, familiar warmth. Dark still, with only the slightest wind teasing at his ear, the mysterious warmth of the ribbed stone revived his hands. He felt stupid. How long had he lain there, cold and unmoving? Now he felt the crevices of the ledge, the tiny ornamentations. He saw, too, that he was naked. His tongue moved, yet no words were uttered.Lowering himself along the comforting ledge, he looked to the reason for his warmth. From below him, a tongue of flames licked at his feet, his thighs, everywhere, trying, he guessed, to consume him. His mouth, too, was filled with flame. Fro an instant, he recalled the classic dragon and the maiden.A wall lay before him, now soft and pink, yet somehow he found the crevice, then the door. With just the slightest effort, his key slipped in. At first, it was hard to turn the tumblers; then, working it around a bit, everything began to ease, to give way. He withdrew it, then tried again, withdrew, then again, over and over. The door opened, but only just enough; he entered. He felt smoothness, then sliding, sliding. His body heat rose; his heart pounded in his chest. The doorway clung to him. A fireman was beside him. Only, oddly, beneath the conventional gear and helmet, he saw the face of a lovely girl, one who even seemed to know him.

“Don’t worry,” she offered, “I’m in no hurry.”

What! He didn’t understand. He was going to burn up, and she was going to take her time? His body continued getting hotter, hotter; the flames must be closing in on him, he thought, yet, curiously, he felt no pain and stayed unafraid. Somehow, he trusted her, sensing how expertly she maneuvered the hose and equipment. When he asked if everything was okay, she assured him the pump was working, yet he couldn’t see any water.

“Okay,” she panted, “now!”

Odd, he thought, she acts as if it’s up to me!

“Now, now, NOW!”

A throbbing torrent rushed before him from below; immediately, his body temperature plunged. Saved! Quickly cooling off now… a shiver. Beneath his body, two of the softest pillows. The air smelled faintly of violets.

FADEOUT

Lynn smiled, kissed the back of Martin’s head, then murmured, “Nice. Very, very nice,” and watched him sleep.

*

Clara’s thoughts were distracted. A woman she’d always privately thought of as “an odious little crow” came hobbling toward her, her dowager-humped body encased like some discarded sausage in an unflattering and inappropriately girlish confection of puce chiffon (the sole guest always permitted to attend without a costume). Clara suspected her lack of costume was meant to intimidate, a symbol of powerful exception, for Elvira Priest was surely one of the three most powerful and vicious gossip columnists ever to bare her fangs in Hollywood.

Everyone knew how Elvira had first come to Hollywood, back in 1933, as A.J.’s guest and then an unimportant little newspaper columnist; yet, within a year her column had been picked up for syndication across the country, and A.J. had awarded her a lifetime contract! Why, now she even had her own radio show! Of course, the show wasn’t very good, despite stars induced (commanded) by their studios to appear, but then, neither were her columns. Truth be told, with Elvira, quality just didn’t matter. Everyone read her, everyone heard her, and everyone believed her – whatever vile rumor-mongering she wallowed in.

“Elvira, darling, don’t you look lovely! Younger than ever! I don’t know how you do it!” For that moment, Clara despised herself. “I knew you’d be here; no party would be complete without you."

Though it merited no response, Elvira sniped, “Everyone knows that, Clara. Any dirt for me, dear? You know how I respect your opinions.”

What Clara could have told her was all she knew was Elvira was a ruthless, lying, hypocritical b***h who seldom played fair. Everyone knew who Elvira was and what she could do. Elvira liked that. But she was a mean-spirited, bitter, matronly widowed crone, unloved and liked by no one. Elvira didn’t care. When Elvira’s late husband lethally slashed his wrists, everyone in Hollywood was sympathetic … to the husband. Or, as one wag had put it, “Why not? Consider his alternative!”

Clara and Elvira made “tiny talk,” chatting with forced amiability about nothing. Elvira never had anything to say if it wasn’t hateful. Then, too, years ago, when Clara had been at the brief peak of her influence, Elvira taught her a little lesson, and now Clara’s mouth brimmed with the bile of recollection. No, she could never forget how Elvira’s poisonous column had forced her hand in getting that lovely young Valerie Bruce fired from her novel’s film, “The Blue Veil.” Clara had thought Valerie was going to be great in the role, but once Elvira’s venom spewed, even the strong-willed Clara knew she’d have to renounce her. So, poor, young, and lovely Valerie Bruce was dropped from, first, the picture. Then, a few months later, her studio contract. Bought out, actually, but it amounted to almost the same thing.

No one knew for sure, but soon it was said Elvira had heard a rumor about how young, ambitious, and fun-loving Val had seduced Elvira’s dumpy husband in her trailer dressing room. No doubt done either for a lark or for spite. No one could say for certain if it was the reason for Elvira’s attack (and one could hardly ask her!), though local wags were known to repeat it was, often adding it was just Val’s way of doing “charity work.” Everyone in the movie colony had known and liked Doc, Elvira’s pathetic lap-dog husband. He had a sweet, even-tempered disposition and received the nickname of “Doc” once it had been learned he’d spent three years in medical school, though not as some claimed, to become a veterinarian. Everyone knew Elvira barely gave him a tumble, her passions spent typing her column or listening to her pre-taped radio show.

As for “The Blue Veil,” it had been rumored to be the next project for Marlene Dietrich and her mentor, Joseph Von Sternberg. Instead, the project was quietly shelved until almost a year later, when, to Clara’s horror, it was drastically revamped, then filmed as a romantic comedy (never her intention) with Magda and, of all people, Danny Deacon! It was a departure for Danny (who always preferred to film his own stories), and, combined with the discovery of the new, foreign, and exotic Magda, making her comedic debut, the film became the curiosity hit of the year. Clara, secretly, loathed it.

Yes, Clara hated Elvira, in part for making her into a hypocrite. And she felt “The Blue Veil” had suffered for it as well! What she meant to be a dramatic love story had been billed as Magda’s first (and only) attempt at romantic comedy. And starring Danny Deacon, whom she’d never cared for, brilliant though he was! Elvira even had the gall to later hint in her columns he’d been responsible for getting Val sacked! Why, everyone knew Danny couldn’t have cared less about Val’s peccadilloes, as long as she performed her role well. And, from the day they began shooting, “The Blue Veil” had promised to be the hit of 1934. Well ,at least Clara had the compensation of knowing Elvira’s tawdry little charade of trying to blame Danny for Val’s firing was a ruse that fooled no one inside in Hollywood. Danny, despite his screen image as the lovable perennial innocent, was not remotely moralistic. He wouldn’t have cared whom Val had slept with, especially since she wasn’t his type. After all, at that time Val had been in her early thirties! Way too old for Danny, and by much more than a decade.

After an interminable amount of time, Clara breathed an audible sigh of reprieve as Elvira spotted Valerie Bruce and excused herself to hobble toward her. Poor Elvira and her hobbling walk. Weak kidneys and an unspoken fondness for liquor never let her travel far from the main house at these affairs. Clara had seen the glint of metallic fire in Elvira’s eyes when she’d spotted Valerie. Clara thought to herself, no doubt Elvira was thinking, “That crazy boy-chasing has-been!” But Elvira merely excused herself, saying she just wanted to say hello.

“Why, hello, Valerie! Don’t you look lovely,” Elvira gushed, just loud enough to be certain those nearby could hear. She held out one of her little bony claw-like hands and briefly gripped a bit of Val’s Maid Marian costume, her heavily varnished carmine-colored nail causing a small snag in the gauzy fabric, all the while noticing the dashing and oh-so-young Robin Hood that lurked nervously behind her, his face a study in tanned ambition. “A lovely costume, dear. Maid Marian, isn’t it?” She saw Val force a weak smile in response. “How… nostalgic! And, my, such a handsome young Robin Hood!”

Toddy took a step toward Elvira, pleased by the unexpected attention, but Elvira wasn’t through.

“And you look so well together. Like mother and son!” With that verbal dagger, the wicked witch of newsprint waved to some far-off figure. “I must say hello to Clark now, dear. Duty impels me to spend time with the stars.” She was gone.

Val sensed Toddy, stunned, was watching her. Her eyes suddenly burned with fury as, under her breath, she said through clenched teeth, “I swear, someday, somehow, I’ll kill her!”