Twisted Boulevard Page 13

  Gwendolyn suspected this woman had a somewhat elastic relationship with the truth, but Zanuck’s love of competitive Scrabble was well known.

  “You must be good,” Gwendolyn commented.

  “There ain’t a dame within a hundred miles who can beat me.”

  “So this store . . . ?”

  “About a month ago, Darryl was in a real punchy mood. He’d gotten into a fight with Joe Mankiewicz over A Letter to Three Wives—those two are always at war—and he calls me up. Challenges me to an all-night Scrabble tournament. I could tell he’d been throwing them back so I’m thinking, ‘Oh boy, easy money, here we come!’ He’d started to sober up by the time I got there, but I fixed that. The more I beat him, the angrier he gets. The angrier he gets, the sloppier he plays. I let him win a couple of rounds, so now he’s sloppy, angry, and cocky. The final game was winner takes all.”

  “How much did you win?”

  “You’re looking at it. But you must excuse me. I’m wrestling with this goddamned window display and I’m opening in two days!”

  Gwendolyn knew Yvette was going to have to work forty-eight hours straight to get this place ready. She wished her luck with the opening and let herself out.

  The woman she’d known as Mae looked different now. She was still rough around the edges, but the wisdom of hindsight appeared to have tempered the fury she radiated that night at Chasen’s.

  Outfoxing Darryl Zanuck took balls, but Yvette would need more than that to run a successful boutique on the Sunset Strip. By the time she was ready to close up, Gwendolyn had comforted herself with the thought that Yvette’s might not be the competition she feared.

  Gwendolyn’s finger was on the final light switch when a new thought occurred to her. She cracked open the back door and looked for a red Chevrolet behind Yvette’s store, then breathed a sigh of relief. The vehicle parked three doors along was neither red nor a Chevrolet. It was a beaten-up Ford delivery van, probably thirty years old with a hundred thousand miles on it. The sliding side door was open, and Gwendolyn could see a rack of dresses inside. She tiptoed up to it and peeked in. It was the usual assortment of ball gowns, cocktail dresses, sportswear.

  “Wait a minute . . .”

  Gwendolyn had spent five years working at the high-end Bullocks Wilshire department store. She could spot a Bullocks number with one eyeball tied behind her back.

  She reached in, pushing one outfit aside to inspect the next. Every one of them bore the Bullocks label, and they were each a season or two out of date. One floor-length dinner dress in black-and-white zigzags with extra-wide lapels had been a popular item three years ago.

  How did Yvette expect to build a business on out-of-date castoffs . . . unless she wasn’t there to sell dresses at all.

  CHAPTER 20

  Kathryn stood under a marble archway bracketed with heavy brocade drapes, turned slowly on her heel, and drowned in Billy Wilder’s extravagant set.

  A forest of ionic columns led to an ornate grand piano and a towering pipe organ. Sideboards and breakfronts carved out of dark wood lined the walls. Above one of the fireplaces hung a full-length portrait, and over another was an ostentatious gilded mirror so baroque that it must have cost some poor woodcarver his eyesight.

  And the photographs! They filled every horizontal surface, each in a different type of frame: Art Deco, Bakelite, sterling silver, Victorian.

  Paramount’s PR department assigned her a minder whose face matched her plain gray pencil skirt and unadorned jacket. “Are all these photos of Gloria Swanson?” Kathryn asked.

  “Mostly. You can tell where they plan to have her or Mister Holden sit; they’ll all be in those shots. But Miss Swanson didn’t bring enough from New York so Sam—Sam Comer, our set decorator—he rustled up some others from the prop department to fill in the holes.”

  “Gloria Swanson’s character in this movie, what is her name?”

  “Norma Desmond.”

  “I take it she’s an actress?”

  “From back in the silent era. She’s a recluse who lives in the glory of her heyday.”

  The glory of her heyday. The phrase rolled around Kathryn’s skull like a roulette ball. Ever since that morning Gwendolyn’s perfume arrived at the store, Kathryn had been wondering if the glory of her own heyday had passed her by.

  When Kathryn first heard Billy Wilder’s new picture was called A Can of Beans, she knew such a crummy title was too inane for a pair of smart cookies like Wilder and his writing partner, Charles Brackett. What bothered her was that she should have known the instant Wilder unveiled its true name. Somehow that news had bypassed her tipsters.

  Was her ear no longer pressed as closely to the ground as she assumed? She was still smarting from Ruby Courtland’s smug pronouncement at the MGM silver jubilee: Louella, Hedda, Kathryn, Sheilah, they’re all a bit past it.

  Kathryn tapped her shoe on the hexagonal tiles.

  Miss PR piped up. “They filmed a scene the other day where Miss Swanson tells Mister Holden that Valentino taught her to tango on this floor. I don’t envy the stagehand who had to spend three hours buffing it up, but it’ll look great on-screen.”

  Kathryn pointed to the square table set up in the middle of the floor. Crew members were buzzing around it, setting ashtrays and high-backed chairs into place and hanging a fringed lightshade off to one side. “What are they shooting today?”

  “A card game: Miss Swanson, Anna Q. Neilson, H.B. Warner, and Buster Keaton.”

  “Silent stars,” Kathryn mused.

  “Mister Holden’s got this great line. He calls them ‘the waxworks’ because they sit around playing cards without talking to one another. But of course, they’re all relics from the silent days, so it’s even funnier.”

  Kathryn had covered Keaton’s fiftieth birthday party at the Talmadge apartment building on Wilshire, where he moved after his career began to falter. It was a small but thoroughly enjoyable party in a charming apartment—but a long way from the twenty-two-room neo-Tudor mansion he’d lived in with Natalie Talmadge when he was the biggest name in Hollywood.

  That party was what, three, maybe four years ago? Which means Keaton’s around fifty-four now. And this little blockhead calls him a relic.

  “Might Mister Wilder be free for a quick chat?”

  The girl winced. “The card game scene involves a lot of setups and lighting. When it gets as complicated as this, Mister Wilder doesn’t like to be distracted by the press.”

  “Miss Swanson, then?”

  “She was in makeup last time I checked.”

  “Perhaps you could ask her?”

  Kathryn watched her scuttle away, then wandered past a suite of lugubrious rococo furniture to a long wooden sideboard parked up against a wall. At each end was a two-foot-high Victorian lamp with six inches of crystal fringe on the shade; crowded between the lamps were dozens of framed photographs.

  The front row contained portraits of Swanson at the height of her stardom in the 1920s. The back row, however, was a collection of random photos: young children with teddy bears, stern governesses laced into punishing corsets, a pair of identical teenage twins.

  But it was a grainy photograph in an austere glass frame that caught Kathryn’s eye. A little girl around three years old wearing a starched white linen dress and an enormous bow in her hair sat in the lap of a startled gent exhibiting a hesitant smile. Outfitted in a crème double-breasted vest and a cravat under a dark knee-length cutaway coat, he looked uncomfortable with the youngster on one knee and his black top hat balanced on the other.

  Kathryn had no memory of herself before the age of about five, and Francine had never been the type of mother who took snapshots of her growing up. She guessed she had a dress like the one in the photograph. It was the uniform of all pre-school-aged children in the 1910s.

  She was still staring at it when a shadow fell across her. The PR lackey was back, her face scrunched into an apology. “Miss Swanston sends her regrets but said it’s t
oo close to filming.”

  Kathryn glanced back at the photo. “Perhaps some other time. I’d love to stick around and watch them film the—what does Mister Holden call them?”

  “The waxworks.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry, but this is a complicated day and Mister Wilder has asked that all nonessential personnel be cleared from the set.” She made a big deal of looking at her watch. “In fact . . .”

  “Don’t worry, dear,” Kathryn told her. “I can take a hint.”

  “Perhaps lunch in the commissary? I can recommend the Paramount Special Salad. I don’t know what’s in the French dressing but it’s—”

  “Sounds delightful.”

  “Unfortunately, I can’t join you, I have other duties to attend to, but I’ll be happy to walk you over there.”

  “No need, I know the way. I’m sure you have a thousand things to do. You don’t need to babysit me.” Even if I am a bit past it.

  * * *

  Paramount’s commissary was called Café Continental, which sounded swish but was really just a huge room with high ceilings and a half dozen rows of four-tops arranged checkerboard style. Its glass walls let workers who toiled inside the soundstages bathe in California sunshine.

  When Kathryn walked in, it was nearly full and the line at the counter was getting longer. When she stopped someone to ask if she could get a coffee and donut without waiting in line, the woman recognized her.

  “Normally I’d say no, but—” she bent forward “—but you used to be on my favorite radio show. See that one by the window?” She pointed to a table next to three men in dark blue suits huddled in conference. “It’s got a nice view of the water tower. Grab it while you can and I’ll bring your coffee soon as I get a chance.”

  Kathryn’s thoughts returned to the photo of the little girl as she sat down at the table and pulled off her gloves. She found herself wondering who the girl was and why the gentleman looked so ill at ease, but was pulled out of her reverie when she heard one of the men next to her say,

  “The Pan-Stik team is ready to submit all the finals to the boss. The Max Factor brand needs a new product and it’s almost summer. We need to get moving, and soon.”

  Kathryn stole a quick glance to her right. She’d assumed the men were studio execs—they certainly had that polished gleam about them—but if they were from Max Factor—

  “There we go.” A cup of steaming black coffee slid in front of her alongside a plate holding two cinnamon donuts.

  “Thank you.” Kathryn looked up. “Oh!”

  Edith Head shouldn’t have been the last person Kathryn expected to see on the Paramount lot, but it was a surprise.

  “I watched you finagle table service out of Nora and want to know how you managed it.”

  Edith slid into the seat next to Kathryn with a second coffee. “We’ve only ever really nodded hello at parties,” Edith said. “I thought it was about time we got to know each other better. Especially after I dropped in on Gwendolyn earlier this week—that new perfume is divine!—and she told me what you overheard at MGM.”

  One of the men beside them said “Max Factor” again but Kathryn had to focus on Edith.

  “Overheard?”

  “Between Errol Flynn and a certain Ruby Courtland. As it happened, I’d received a request for an interview from Ruby but hadn’t yet responded, so out of curiosity I set one up for a couple of days later.”

  Edith had found Ruby sycophantic to the point of nausea, so she baited her with a question about fashion trends. Ruby responded with a speech about catering to the tastes of the moviegoing public’s younger members. To someone like Edith, who prided herself on setting trends and establishing tastes, not being a slave to them, Ruby’s lecture was a declaration of lunacy. Edith had sent her packing.

  Kathryn pretended to give Edith her full attention, but she was actually taking in as much as she could of the conversation next door. One of the men wore a Harvard ring on his right pinky; it glinted in the sunlight as he waved his hands around to punctuate a story about Rita Hayworth and Tru-Color lipstick.

  When Edith reached the end of her story, Kathryn leaned in. “I need your help,” she whispered.

  Edith’s eyes widened behind her blue-tinted glasses. “Go on.”

  Kathryn explained in a rush who their neighbors were. Edith caught on before she even finished. She slapped her hands on the tabletop.

  “So, Kathryn, you were telling me about your radio show idea, but of course once you get Betty Hutton started, it’s hard to shut her down. However, I’m all ears now.”

  Kathryn snapped her starched linen napkin open. “Well, as you know, Kraft Music Hall is off the air.”

  “Do you miss it?”

  “Terribly! I was intimidated by the prospect of performing to a microphone at first, but there’s something about standing in front of a live audience that really got my wheels turning.”

  “You were so good on that show!” Edith pushed her glasses up her nose and gave a furtive nod to confirm they’d captured the guys’ attention.

  “That means a lot, coming from you. Anyway, it got me thinking how Louella’s show is long gone, and so is Hedda’s. You know how popular Hollywood gossip shows are, and now there are none on the airwaves. There’s this big black hole desperate to be filled.”

  Edith held her teaspoon straight up. “You heard about Max Factor offering Sheilah her own slot, didn’t you?”

  “Oh, yes,” Kathryn said airily. “From what I hear, she got greedy and started demanding all sorts of things.”

  “I’d have thought she would know better after seeing all those stars carry on.” Edith wiped her mouth like a disapproving matron. “I’ve heard there’s a shortlist of replacements, and that you’re on it.”

  “I’ve heard that too, but I’d have to see it typed up on Max Factor’s letterhead before I took it seriously.” Kathryn wished she could see the Max Factor guys, but they were in her blind spot. “I hear they’re thoroughly professional in all their dealings.”

  “They’re missing a golden opportunity, if you ask me.”

  “I was looking at the radio schedule just the other day. The ideal spot would be Sunday nights on NBC, following The Great Guildersleeve.”

  Edith set her cup onto its saucer with a loud crack. “Perfect! I suggest you find somebody who knows somebody who works for Max Factor before you-know-who steals it out from under you.”

  Kathryn forced down a mouthful of coffee. “Don’t make me say her name,” she hedged.

  “Then I’ll say it. Ruby Courtland makes out like she’s all rainbows and bunny rabbits but from what I’ve heard, she’s quite the opposite. I have nothing against ambition—especially in a working woman—but she takes ruthless to a whole new level.”

  “Really?” Kathryn let her spoon slip through her fingers.

  “But of course you didn’t hear that from me,” Edith added.

  Her eyes shot to the left. Kathryn heard chairs scrape against the linoleum and said nothing until Edith let out a deep breath.

  “Do you think they heard us?” Kathryn asked.

  Edith snapped a cracker in two. “They were hanging on every word like I was Moses and you were the two stone tablets.”

  “But did they buy it?”

  “Who knows what goes on in the minds of men. But if I were a gambling woman, I’d bet we just knocked Ruby Courtland out of the running.”

  CHAPTER 21

  When Gwendolyn opened the door and saw the boxes strewn around her workroom, her first thought was, Did we have another earthquake?

  But when she flicked on the lights, she found every box of buttons and ribbons, gloves and extraneous doodads had been emptied of its contents.

  She laid her handbag on the sink and picked her way through the detritus to the telephone. She dialed one of the few numbers she knew by heart and didn’t give him a chance to say hello. “Marcus? It’s me. Can you come down to the store? I think I’ve been robb
ed.”

  When she hung up, she picked her way around hatboxes and scarves and walked out into the salon. It was untouched. She unlocked the register. Everything was exactly as she left it.

  What kind of robber doesn’t go for the cash drawer?

  She wondered for a minute what she should do next. Call the police? Tell her neighbors? Marcus arrived before she could decide.

  “Christ almighty!” His hair was a bird’s nest and he was still wearing his pajama top and what looked like the first pair of pants that came to hand. “Are you okay?”

  She nodded and pointed to the open drawer.

  He peered at it, puzzled. “So they stole nothing?” The immaculate displays were disturbingly at odds with the wild jumble in the back room. “So if they didn’t break in for the money, they figured they’d only find whatever they were looking for in your work room?” They returned to the doorway and stared at the wreckage.

  Gwendolyn picked up a large cardboard box in which she kept her broad hat ribbons. “At least they didn’t smash my perfume.”

  “How considerate—or weird.”

  Gwendolyn dropped the box and crossed to the shelves along the wall. She counted her stock. “Only one is missing.”

  They stood in silence while they surveyed the debris, Marcus twirling a zipper in his hand like a burlesque dancer. “Maybe we should be asking who wants to see you fail.”

  Gwendolyn covered her face with the lid of a hatbox. “You really think she’d go that far? Surely they frown on accused felons out on bail committing breaking and entering? Leilah’s a ball-breaker, but she’s no fool.”

  “You think someone like that doesn’t have henchman to do her dirty work?”

  “I thought henchmen only lived in Cagney pictures.”

  “I must admit,” Marcus said, nodding toward her perfume bottles, “they must be mighty considerate henchmen to leave those intact.”

  Gwendolyn kicked off her shoes and dropped to her knees to start sorting the twenty different kinds of buttons that were scattered across the floor. Marcus knelt, too, and they got down to returning notions to their boxes, sorting papers into piles, respooling ribbons, and reshelving books and ledgers. As they worked, she asked him about Oliver.