All That Glitters (16 page)

Annabelle, wearing her blue police uniform, came down a hallway, her shoes clicking on the hard tile. I suspected in the next few hours she wouldn't be my former drinking buddy. She'd be Detective Sergeant Annabelle Church.

She slowed as she approached, eyeing Laura. Before I could introduce them, Laura flashed Annabelle her warm, practiced Broadway smile. “You must be Annabelle. Jake's told me all about you.”

Annabelle's jaw dropped. “He has?”

“He prattles on about his good ol' Pinkerton days when you and Gus, Pat Lonigan, and others would go out drinking after work at your favorite speakeasy. Should I call you Detective, Sergeant…”

“Annabelle will be fine.” The detective's face relaxed. “I was just about to get on the horn and call your studio to set up an interview. You didn't have to come here. Didn't Jake tell you?”

“He did, but we both want to make this easy on you so Eric Carville's killer can be brought to justice as quickly as possible.”

Annabelle appeared uneasy with Laura's presence. She gestured toward the corridor. “This way then.”

Laura walked beside her, and chatted like they were old buddies. “You don't know how much I admire you, Detective Church.”

“Me?” She stopped outside an unmarked door. “You're a famous actress, you're gorgeous, and you've dated movie stars.”

Dated movie stars? Was Annabelle referring to William Powell? Were there others?

Laura flashed a delighted smile. “You're a woman who made a career in a man's world, yet you're attractive and refined. I wish I had the courage to pursue my dreams as successfully as you have.”

I wasn't sure where Laura's act was going, but I felt it had something to do with our earlier discussion about Annabelle and Gus.

Annabelle led us to a spacious room with two desks. To my dismay, Gus was at one of them, and was as pompous as I remembered. He sat cleaning his fingernails with a switchblade knife. He snapped forward in his chair and stood when Laura entered the room.

She hugged him like they were old pals. “Detective Connolly, what a wonderful surprise.”

He gestured to a chair beside his desk and slipped the knife into the drawer.

After Laura took a seat, Annabelle stood behind the other desk. “May I get you two anything?”

We both shook our heads. I wanted to get this over with. I reached into my suit coat pocket and handed Annabelle the statement I'd prepared.

She finished reading and handed the pages to Gus.

Gus scanned the statement and turned the pages over on his desk. “It's not going to be so simple, Jake.”

I pulled a chair from the corner and sat. “You have my complete cooperation. Do you want Laura to wait in another room?”

Annabelle sat and held up one hand. “This isn't an interrogation. We're just gathering information.”

Of course they were. For the next hour, both detectives asked questions I had already addressed in the typed statement, but I understood how the game was played. They probed for inconsiste
ncies. Meanwhile, Laura ignored me and mostly observed Gus and Annabelle. The questions finally ended. Annabelle asked Laura if she had anything to add.

Laura described arriving with Eric Carville and how she'd spent most of her time getting to know the Carville brothers. She confirmed we left around eleven fifteen. She finished then politely added, “Perhaps I'm out of line, but I'm curious: If the cabdriver confirmed the time we left and the time he dropped us back at the hotel, and the hotel staff backs him up, Jake's in the clear, right?”

Annabelle glanced at her notes without replying.

Gus cleared his throat. “Miss Wilson—”

“Laura.”

“Unfortuna
tely, the cabdriver's log was not up to date. The times he gave us were…vague. He's no longer certain of the times. Without a written log, there's no clear evidence showing when you and Jake left the Carville Estate and returned to the hotel.”

“But the hotel staff…”

Gus glanced at Annabelle. “The staff confirmed you both returned together, but none of them were able to agree on the exact time.”

Here it was. Gus, as I expected he might, had succeeded in stretching the timeline. My neck was still on the line.

Laura appeared calm and composed, not a hint of worry on her face. “Well, I'm sure you two will get to the bottom of this soon. Detective, would you mind showing me to the ladies' room?”

Gus glanced at Annabelle as if that might be her job. She didn't respond, so he rose and straightened his tie. “Certainly.”

He opened the door for Laura, and they disappeared into the corridor.

Annabelle's professional demeanor vanished. She brushed her bangs from her eyes. “Jake, you've got to help me. You're the one person we can even remotely call a suspect.”

“Eric had plenty of enemies.”

“That's the problem. Two dozen people at the party probably wanted him dead, but the only physical evidence is linked to you.”

“There's the second glass on the nightstand. Someone tried to fake a suicide note.”

“That works against you.”

I let out a groan of frustration. “If I killed Eric, why would I prove the note was a fake?”

“That's what I argued to Gus, but he thinks you did that to point us toward whichever dame slept with Eric that night.” Annabelle bit her lip. “I want to help, Jake. I really do.”

“You discover anything about the murder being a mob hit?”

She rolled her eyes as if the idea was a red herring. “Only what I read in the papers.” She rose from her chair, walked around her desk, and sat on the edge. She crossed her legs, showing plenty of shapely calf. “The brass thinks I'm stalling. They want an arrest. You uncover anything I can use?”

I shook my head. Helping Gus and Laura hadn't gotten me anywhere.

The door opened and Laura and Gus came in.

Annabelle returned to her chair.

Laura winked at me so the two detectives couldn't see. “You ready, darling?”

Gus looked a little flustered. At least he was looking at me with a lack of hate-filled eyes from previous encounters.

Annabelle walked us to the door. “Anything else comes to mind, please give me…us a call.”

We stepped outside and Laura's smile was brighter than the midday sun.

“Okay, what have you done?”

She feigned a look of innocence. “I merely agreed to give Gus dancing lessons if and when you're exonerated.”

My legs refused to move. “Would that constitute a bribe?”

Laura shrugged. “You should know. I taught you.”

I glanced toward the entrance of the police station, trying to picture Gus moving to music. “Why would you offer Gus dance lessons?”

“Like I suspected, Gus and Annabelle have a thing going. There's a policeman's ball coming up, and Gus can't dance.”

“Are you serious?” We waited at a red light.

When the light turned green, Laura held my hand and we crossed the street. “What, you didn't notice?”

“Notice what?” I stopped beside the Model T and opened the passenger door.

“Gus and Annabelle.” Laura climbed in. “They have a thing going.”

I didn't believe that for a second. Laura was seeing what she wanted to see. Gus and Annabelle seemed as likely a couple as Primo Carnera and Jean Harlow.

We arrived a half hour later at Christine Brody's surprisingly modest Beverly Hills home. I'd expected something with more glitz and glitter. The single-story sat on an acre of land surrounded by a wrought-iron gate.

I stopped beside a speaker tucked into a stone pillar. I pressed the button, ignoring the tight-lipped look of humiliation on Laura's face, no doubt over the heap we were driving.

“Yes!” Christine sounded like she'd raced to answer my buzz.

“It's Jake Donovan and Laura Wilson. Do you have a few moments, Christine?”

She didn't reply, but a moment later, the gate swung open and I drove along a redbrick driveway. The turn-of-the-century white stucco one-story was smaller than the lavish grounds suggested.

I shut off the sputtering engine and climbed out. At the passenger side, I yanked on the door. The hinges screamed like a monkey at the Bronx Zoo.

Christine greeted us in fuzzy green slippers and a white terry-cloth robe. “I was taking a nap.”

Laura squeezed Christine's hand. “We're so sorry to bother you on your day off.”

With a quick glance toward our Model T, Christine flashed a disapproving sneer. “Why are you driving this old jalopy?”

“It's a rental.” I followed Laura inside and set my hat on a smoked-glass table.

Christine led us to a high-ceilinged tiled room off a lavish kitchen with modern appliances. Ornate French furniture, designed more for viewing than as a place to set our butts, filled the room. Large windows on the south wall framed a crystal-clear, oval-shaped pool with a diving board at least ten feet above the glistening surface of the water.

A massive oil painting of Christine standing in front of a fireplace hung above an uncomfortable-looking powder-blue couch. Laura and I perched on the couch while Christine cinched her robe and faced us on a flowered chair with wooden arms.

A fluffy white Persian cat with black-tipped ears marched in from the kitchen. After a brief pause, he approached me and stared a moment before opening his mouth and letting out a get-out-of-my-house hiss.

Christine snapped her fingers. “Napoleon, behave.” The cat strolled to the other side of the room. Christine glanced down the hall. She wasn't alone and hadn't been napping.

I cleared my throat. “I'll be brief.”

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Christine clasped her hands on her lap.

I didn't want to waste her time or ours. “I'm hoping you can answer a few questions about Eric's murder.”

She gripped the arms of the chair. “You don't think I had anything to do with it.”

“Of course not.” Laura gave a wave of one hand.

The cat weaved between Christine's legs and sat at her feet, never taking his yellow eyes off me.

The last thing I wanted was to frighten Christine or scare her so she wouldn't open up. “Not all of this has been in the papers. After Eric left the party and went upstairs, someone came to his room. They had drinks and, well…”

“We all thought”—C
hristine's face blanched—“he went to bed to sleep it off.”

“He went up for a little hanky-panky.” Laura's lip curled in disapproval.

Christine covered her eyes as if trying to identify who the person might be.

“That woman was the last person to see Eric alive besides the killer,” I said.

Christine appeared shocked by the news of Eric's rendezvous, but I couldn't shake the sense she was hiding other feelings.

“She might be the person who shot him.” Christine's hands began to tremble. “I suppose you want me to guess who she was?”

Over Christine's shoulder, movement outside caught my eye. When Laura covered a grin with one hand, Christine glanced back, and all three of us gazed toward the grounds behind the house.

William Powell, barefoot and dressed in red swim trunks, closed the French doors to what was undoubtedly a bedroom. Carrying a beach towel, he hid behind a palm tree then ducked behind a stone wall surrounding the pool.

His head bounced above the wall as he sneaked away from the house. Apparently determined to hide his presence in Christine's bedroom, he opened a gate in the fence and headed for the diving board as if he'd been there all along. He dropped the towel and climbed the steps. At the end of the board, the actor bounced and executed a perfect dive into the water, barely making a splash.

Laura burst out laughing. “I'm so sorry. Jake, we'd better go.”

I didn't care how embarrassing the situation was. I wasn't going anywhere without answers.

“No, this is important.” Christine rose and crossed her arms. She glanced toward the pool, where Powell was swimming the backstroke. “Just don't let Bill know.”

She paced the room. “I have a history of picking men who…who aren't particularly nice.” She stopped at the window while Powell gracefully swam laps on his back. “I mean who else would do what he just did to preserve my honor?”

Christine sank back in her chair, covering her head in both hands before looking up. “Eric and I had an affair that began a year ago. I was determined to be discreet. I didn't want anyone to think I landed the part in
Midnight Wedding
because I slept with the screenwriter.”

Laura's eyes glistened. “No one would think that.”

“Damn it, Laura.” Christine picked up her cat and scratched his neck with her long red nails. “You're not in New York anymore. Everyone in Hollywood would think that.”

Laura shook her head. “I can't picture you with Eric Carville.”

Christine lit a Chesterfield. “He offered comfort when I needed it, that's all. We were together maybe once a week, but we drifted apart, or Eric drifted to someone else.”

“Who?”

“I don't know, but I'm certain he was involved with someone at the end. A gal knows, right, Laura?”

“I have little experience in that area.” Laura didn't meet my gaze.

I didn't want to know about other men in Laura's past. I could only focus on the future, our future.

Christine's chin fell. The cigarette trembled in her hand. “Eric was a jerk, most times, but he also had a vulnerable side. He didn't deserve what happened to him. Oh, Jake, I'm afraid the police will find out and think I killed him. What am I going to do?”

“Why did Eric confront you when we arrived at the party?”

“The past couple of months, Eric grew more distant and treated me like I'd seen him treat other dames, but when I suggested we start seeing other people, he became incensed.”

Laura sucked in a gasp. “Then you showed up with Jake.”

“Sorry, Jake.” Christine's lower lip quivered. “I…I might have used you to make Eric jealous. When you two fought at the party, I felt responsible. However, in a twisted, pathetic way, I was pleased Eric still cared about me.”

Now I understood why Christine had offered me a ride from the train station and asked me to take her to the party. “Who went to Eric's room that night?”

Christine held out both hands and Napoleon jumped down. “I have no idea who the tramp might have been.”

“Oh, come on!” Laura jumped to her feet, her face reddening. “You must have some idea.”

Christine rose, eyes pleading. “Eric could be a bastard then a prince. I know plenty of dames he slept with. At least half a dozen attended the party. It could have been one of them or someone new.”

Laura, fists clenched, stood inches from Christine. “The cops think Jake killed Eric, and it's your fault!”

“Laura!” I lunged and held Laura's shoulders to calm her down and keep her from socking Christine in the kisser.

Tears welled in Christine's eyes as she backed away from Laura.

Laura shook off my grip and sat on the couch.

I stood between the two costars. “Do you think Angie Burkheart might be the mystery woman?”

Christine let out a gasp. “Angie! Why do you suspect—?”

The back door opened and William Powell entered, whistling “All of Me,” a happy tune, while briskly wiping his arms with the white towel. “Jake, Laura. What a delightful surprise.”

Struggling to regain her composure, Christine turned her head and blinked away tears as Powell shook my hand and kissed Laura's cheek. “I dropped by earlier for a dip in Christine's fabulous pool. She has plenty of extra swimwear. Why don't you join us?”

He had no clue we'd seen him slip from Christine's bedroom.

“We'd love nothing better, Bill.” Laura's gracious smile hid her anger with Christine. “But we just stopped by to ask Christine's opinion about a scene Jake's revising, and we have another stop to make.”

“That's too bad.” Powell shrugged to Christine. “Guess it's just you and me, doll.”

Napoleon rushed toward Powell and raked a claw over his foot, drawing blood.

Powell let out a painful howl and grabbed his foot.

“Bad kitty.” Christine swept up the cat. “He hates men.” She took him down the hallway.

Powell balanced on one foot and inspected the damage. “You'd think that goofy bastard would be used to men.”

I snickered. “He only hissed at me.”

Christine returned with iodine and cotton balls. She helped Powell to a chair and doctored his wound. She finished and kissed him. “Would you give us a moment, Bill?”

“Of course.” He winced as he rose. “Jake, Laura, why don't the four of us have dinner? I'd love to chat about the
Thin Man
screenplay I just read, particularly the final scene, where Nick Charles gathers all the suspects in a room and reveals who killed the skinny guy.”

“This weekend?” If the cops hadn't tossed me in the can by then.

“Perfect. See you both then.” He winked at Laura, draped the towel over one shoulder, and hobbled toward the back door.

When he closed the door behind him, Christine walked us to the foyer. She opened the front door, and Napoleon brushed past her in a dash for freedom.

I made a halfhearted attempt to stop the cat.

Christine held up one hand. “That's okay. He's going to visit his girlfriend next door.”

Laura chuckled. “That would explain his temper.”

Christine shook her head. “Jake, couldn't you rent something better than that old heap?”

Laura laughed and squeezed Christine's arm. “I know!”

Wasn't that just like a couple of dames? One second they were ready to scratch each other's eyes out and the next minute they were laughing about a cat's sex life and an old jalopy.

I snatched my hat from the table. I didn't want to jaw about the car or Christine's damn cat. “Are the cops aware of your relationship with Eric?”

“No, but I'll tell them everything.” Christine glanced over her shoulder toward the pool. “Right after Bill leaves.”

I shook my head. “You've done nothing wrong. I don't want you subjected to any public embarrassment or people thinking that's why you landed the part. Don't say anything to the detectives unless you have to.”

She cocked her head. “When would I have to?”

Laura snapped the answer. “If the cops arrest Jake.”

Christine hugged Laura. “Let's hope it doesn't come to that.”

As we drove from Christine's house, Laura shook her head. “You should've asked Christine to call Annabelle. Wouldn't that be the quickest way to get the cops off your back?”

“Gus would think she made up the story to help one of her Hollywood pals. I have to solve this case.” For the first time I'd made real progress. “If you thought Christine should call the cops, why didn't you speak up?”

Laura squeezed my hand. “Because, in spite of my inclination to play by the rules, I think you made the right call.”

“Thanks.” I drove toward the Hollywood Hills. “If they're planning to arrest me, I suspect they'll wait until after the funeral tomorrow.”

“Twenty-four hours. Any last-meal requests?”

I laughed. “I'm glad you can still find humor in the situation.”

“Laughter keeps me from sobbing. Where are we headed now?”

“Norman Carville's place.”

“It's not a place, it's an estate. Besides, the old man's at the studio.”

“I'm counting on him not being around. I want to talk to James.” I was determined to break through the stuffed-shirt exterior of the butler and learn what he knew about the people at the party.

We reached the hills, and the Model T began to overheat. Each minute, more and more steam curled from the top of the radiator. When I finally parked in the circular drive of the Carville Estate, steam hissed from the front of the car.

Laura shook her head. “I think it's time to call that used-car-salesman friend and get a better car.”

I patted the dash. “She just needs to cool off a few minutes, don't you, girl?”

I climbed out and opened the hood. With a handkerchief, I unscrewed the radiator cap and jumped back when steam shot up like Old Faithful. “See, dear? She's fine. Like me, she could use a drink.”