All That Glitters (17 page)

Laura tugged on my arm and stopped me before we reached the front door. “I like James. Please be nice.”

What? “Of course I'll be nice.”

“You were…abrupt with Christine.”

Me? “I thought you were going to punch her in the mouth.”

Laura grinned. “Only for a moment.”

Impeccably dressed as always, James stood in the doorway. To my surprise, he wore what on others would be called a goofy grin, and his toupee was askew. He welcomed us both, took my hat, and led us inside. “Mr. Carville isn't here, but I suspect you know that.”

I walked past him and couldn't mistake the aroma of whiskey. Laura's raised eyebrow told me she smelled liquor as well. Being drunk in the middle of the day seemed surprising, especially for a butler.

“Then you understand why we're here?”

“Mr. Carville said he suspected you might look into Eric's murder since you used to be a gumshoe.” The butler laughed. “Gumshoe. You Americans. Would you like to meet in the library?”

Laura shook her head. “How about by the pool?”

“As you wish. May I bring you some coffee?”

We both answered yes at the same time. He headed for the kitchen. We crossed the ballroom and went outside. Laura whispered, “It's noon and he's drunk already.”

“The question is, has James always had a problem with alcohol, or did his drinking start after Eric's murder?”

“I hope it's not a problem.” She chose a table shaded by a large umbrellas.

A moment later, James, swaying slightly, carried a tray containing a carafe, three cups, and containers of cream and sugar. He stumbled, and one of the cups tipped over. I grabbed the coffee before it landed on the deck.

He dropped into a chair. “Did you feel that?”

Laura cocked her head. “Feel what?”

“The tremor. We get mild quakes here all the time.”

Especially when we've been drinking. I filled each of the cups.

James ignored the coffee and gazed over the Hollywood Hills, alone with his thoughts.

I sipped the brew. “Relax, James, and enjoy some joe.”

“Joe. Ah yes, coffee.” He let out a ragged breath and pulled the cup closer. He added a splash of cream then two sugar cubes. He stirred the drink with a spoon and sipped. “How can I help?”

“You said you'd been with Mr. Carville from the beginning.”

“The beginning of the studio.” He glanced around as if someone might be watching. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

Smoke? Drink? The man was full of surprises. “Go right ahead.”

He pulled out a pack of cigarettes, lit one, and took a long, satisfying puff. “At the risk of boring you both…I was an entertainer in my younger days, what today is called a song and dance man. I was an excellent dancer and have a trunk full of clippings to prove it.”

“What happened?” Laura asked.

“I come from a family of military gentlemen. At my father's shall we say ‘urging,' I enlisted when the second Boer War broke out. A bullet shattered my knee. Almost lost my leg. Walked with a limp for several years. My dancing days were over.”

I was growing impatient. Even drunk, the butler was a bit of a bore. Boer War indeed.

“I returned to the theater I loved, but at age thirty, I still lived in the same room I had as a boy. My father, who'd had enough of my playacting, slapped enough money into my hand to give me a fresh start someplace, anyplace else. It was my idea to relocate across the pond, and California sounded like the land of opportunity. As you might suspect, I quickly found I was still a song-and-dance man who couldn't dance, couldn't make a living in the City of Angels any more than I could in England. I auditioned for a silent movie, not a movie exactly, a scene from
Hamlet.
Norman was a cameraman. His career took off. Mine, well, I had bills to pay. I did some contemporary plays, including the role of a butler. By that time, Norman's studio was making money. He purchased this house and offered me a job as a real butler. Looking back, I had as much chance of making it in the movies as a teamster does of joining the Rockettes.”

James crushed the cigarette in the ashtray. “I trust now you're sufficiently aware of my history with the Carville family, you'll quit, as you Americans say, beating around the bush.”

“Little went on in this house you weren't aware of.”

“I thought so until someone committed a murder on my watch.” He pulled a flask from his suit, unscrewed the cap, and sipped.

I had to press him. “Were you fond of Eric?”

“Eric moved back home to help his father recover from a heart attack.” James let out a deep breath. “Anyone who'd do that can't be all bad.”

“Let me ask it another way.” I tried not to react to Laura's kick under the table. “What would have happened to your position if Norman had passed away and Eric had inherited the estate?”

“Do you read Mary Roberts Rinehart, Mr. Donovan?” He raised the flask to his lips.

“From time to time.”

“I thought maybe that's where you came up with the cliché ‘the butler did it.' You might be an excellent writer and were probably a fabulous detective, but I'm not a suspect in Eric Carville's murder.” He slammed his fists against the table. “You are! You're here to, as Dashiell Hammett might say, ‘pin the rap on me.' “

Laura leaped to her feet. “You son of a bitch. What gives you the right—?”

“Laura.” I held her arm. So much for her admonition. “Be nice.”

“Like hell I will. Jake's trying to solve the murder of your employer's son. I'd expect you'd think enough of Norman to hear Jake out and help if you can. “

James rose on steady feet. His intoxicated appearance vanished as he barked, “I didn't kill Eric Carville!”

“I'm just looking for answers.” I snatched the flask and sipped. “Water. You thought by playing the role of boozehound you might get out of answering my questions.” I had to give the guy credit. He'd fooled Laura and me.

“Something like that.”

“You crazy bastard!” Laura's face reddened. “We're here to solve a murder, not to frame you.”

“Miss Wilson, please. With all due respect, why should I trust either of you?”

“Because, frankly,” I said, “I believe we represent the best chance of finding out who killed Eric Carville.”

James blew out a long breath. “Then you'll probably want to see where I was when the shot was fired.”

As we followed the butler to the kitchen, I couldn't help but smile at Laura. Be nice, she'd said. I winked at her, and she smacked my arm.

James showed us to the kitchen table where he'd been sitting when he heard the shot upstairs. He opened a door in the back of the room and pointed up the back stairs to the second floor. He described the panic he felt when he dashed up the stairs. He ran toward Eric's room and froze in disbelief.

I opened a door beside the stairs and peeked outside at a lush flower garden. A wrought-iron gate connected the house to the block wall that surrounded the estate. Through the locked gate was the circular drive in the front of the house.

I stepped back into the kitchen. “Who has keys to the gate?”

James shrugged. “Todd, Norman, and…Eric.”

“Do you?”

He nodded.

I didn't want to ask all the questions, and Laura looked like she had some of her own.

She stood at the foot of the stairs. “When you ran upstairs, I assume you didn't see anyone running from the room. You would have mentioned that.”

“Of course.”

“A woman joined Eric in his room the night he was killed.” Laura tossed out the main reason for coming here. “Jake and I would like to know who she was.”

I clapped a hand on the butler's shoulder. “Like I said, little went on in this house without you knowing about it.”

James pressed his lips together a moment, as if keeping a secret inside. “If I give you her name, it could ruin her life and the lives of others.”

Laura grabbed his wrist. “Damn it, no more games.”

“You're right.” With his eyes closed, James let out a ragged breath. “It was Christine Brody.”

With a freshly filled radiator, courtesy of James, we drove through the Carville Estate's tree-lined drive. Laura and I argued over the butler's claim Christine Brody had been the woman in Eric's bed the night of the shooting. Laura believed him, but I felt strongly he was protecting someone else.

We turned toward town. Laura crossed both arms and stared out the window. “Don't let Christine fool you. She's an actress.”

James, too, and he'd fooled us both with the drunken butler bit. “Darling, you're an actress, and I believe everything you say.”

Laura gently patted my face. “Keep doing that, dear.”

The Model T struggled through the twists and turns of the Hollywood Hills. We turned on Mulholland Drive and passed a black sedan parked at the side of the road. With nothing to go on but instinct, I kept my eye on the rearview mirror. The sedan pulled behind us and drew closer.

Laura peered over her shoulder. “We're being followed.”

A sinking feeling grew in my gut as the driver closed the gap to less than fifty yards. We weren't being followed. We were being pursued. I mashed down on the accelerator.

I'd been in plenty of car chases. Normally I liked my chances on a winding road. This time I was trying to coax everything out of a twelve-year-old, hard-riding Model T. The other guy drove a powerful-sounding black Chevrolet with balloon tires that gripped the road like a panther.

I crossed into the oncoming lane, using the entire width of the roadway to smooth out the turns. With a white-knuckled grip on the wheel, I pressed the pedal to the floorboard. I managed to increase the gap but knew the slight advantage wouldn't last.

I bit my lip, tasting blood, as we sailed over the crest of a hill. The wheels almost left the pavement. We scraped bottom and bounced. The Model T's old springs groaned on impact. The wheel fought to shake loose from my grip, but I held on and maintained control. Seconds later, our pursuers drew closer, revealing two men in the front and a third in the back.

Laura squeezed my left arm. “It must be the police.”

An arrest now would stop the progress we'd made and throw a monkey wrench into my plan to salvage my career and rescue Laura's. Being pursued by anyone other than the cops meant Laura and I were in an even bigger jam.

Halfway between the Carville Estate and the outskirts of Hollywood, the old car was pushing forty. I wiped sweat from my brow. If we could make it out of the hills, we'd encounter traffic and might be able to dodge these bums.

I rounded a blind turn. The steering wheel shuddered. Steam boiled from the radiator, and the smell of hot rubber engulfed the inside of the car.

The sedan's powerful engine screamed like a vicious chimp. The black car filled the rearview mirror.

I skidded through a turn, kicking up dirt and gravel at the edge of the pavement, peppering the front of the sedan with pebbles.

Laura grabbed my arm. “I think you should pull over.”

No way. I wouldn't give up.

The road straightened, and the sedan pulled beside us. In the passenger seat, a broad-shouldered tough guy with a mustache the size of a cocker spaniel thumbed to the side of the road. “Pull over.”

I wouldn't give up that easy. I downshifted and tapped the brakes.

The sedan raced ahead then squealed on smoking tires and fishtailed as the driver hit the brakes.

I shifted again. The old car surged past the slowing sedan. I silently shouted in triumph, but the small victory wouldn't last.

“Take that, you bums!” Laura shook her fist. “I guess now's not the time to mention you should've rented a better car.”

In spite of the pounding in my temples, I couldn't help but smile. Seconds later, the sedan pulled alongside us again. An oncoming car approached, and the sedan dropped back. The driver swerved behind us, barely missing our rear bumper. If our luck held, Laura and I might make it to the city.

The sedan bore down on us again. Like a Coney Island bumper car, the car jolted us with a bang. The steering wheel shook from my grip. Laura shrieked and pressed both feet to the floorboard as we swerved toward a thick pine tree at the side of the road.

I grabbed the steering wheel and jerked us back to the pavement, kicking up dirt and rocks. I mashed down on the accelerator, but the engine coughed and sputtered as we approached another hill. Steam shot from the radiator, blocking my view through the windshield.

What was I doing? Arrogant pride in my driving skills had endangered Laura. “We're not going to outrun them!”

The sedan rammed us again, caving in the back of the Model T like a cheap tin can. One of the rear fenders fell off and gouged a small trench in the side of the road. The wheel jerked from my hands. The Model T swerved and skidded toward the side of the pavement. “Hold on!”

We slammed into a boulder, crumpling the front of the Model T. The hood ripped off, bounced on the roof, and banged onto the pavement behind us. I held on as we spun out of control. My head smacked the windshield. Blackness was followed by blinding points of light as we shuddered to a stop. “Laura! Are you all right?”

“I'm fine. Just scared.” Laura scooted toward me and stared into my eyes. “You're bleeding.”

The driver's door squeaked open. A strong pair of arms pulled me from the front seat and tossed me to the ground.

A ragged hissing noise drowned out the throbbing in my head. I shook off the fog and realized the sound was steam spitting from the radiator. The impact mangled the front of the car. Glass and metal lay scattered along the side of the road. Oil seeped from beneath the car's engine, and gasoline fumes filled the air.

Laura tried to climb out the driver's side, but the hulk with the big mustache stopped her and closed the door. “Stay here, doll. If you want to see your boyfriend again, you won't report this to the cops.”

“Get away from her.” I scrambled to my feet on unsteady legs and fell. I rose and lunged, pulling the big man away from Laura. His tall partner shoved me against the front fender of the Model T and yanked my arms behind my back.

Laura's frightened voice came from inside the car. “Jake, I'm okay!”

I spun free and punched the tall man in the kidneys. He screamed as I pressed his face against the hot metal of the steaming radiator.

The big man who weighed at least three hundred pounds pulled me off his partner, wrapped his meaty arm around my head, and squeezed. Like a professional wrestler, he hefted me in the air and slammed me to the ground.

Air burst from my lungs. I continued to struggle as the two of them pushed, shoved, and dragged me to the black sedan.

The man in the backseat rolled down the window. “Bring the dish.”

I sucked in gulps of air.

The broad-shouldered lug pinned me against the car. “The boss said just bring this one.”

Holding his red face, the tall man yanked open the Model T's door. “Come on, doll, guess you're coming with us.”

The big man forced me into the backseat. Blood dripped on my trousers.

The door opened again, and Laura fell inside and threw her arms around me. She inspected my damage. She breathed a sigh of relief. She sat beside me with the stiff-upper-lip expression she always summoned during moments of crisis. “You okay?”

“I'll live.” I had a few bruises, a cut over one eye, and a ripped suit coat, but I was more worried about her.

The man beside me poked my ribs with a pistol. The same bum who had confronted Laura and me outside the speakeasy the night we followed Todd Carville.

“What do you want with us?”

“Not a thing, Mr. Donovan, but my boss would like to chat. If you'd pulled over, I would have explained that.” He handed me a handkerchief. “Don't bleed in his car.”

If I was going to get us out of this jam, I had to regain my composure. I dusted myself off as best I could and straightened my tie. “We haven't been properly introduced. You know my name, and this is Laura Wilson.”

“Why not?” He held the .45 steady. “The name's Leonardo De Palma, Junior. My friends call me Leo.”

The driver with the burn on one side of his face turned and sneered. “His enemies call him Leo the Barber.”

Laura leaned forward and placed one hand on the front seat. “Because he gets out of so many close shaves?”

Leo pulled a straight-edge razor from his pocket then stuffed it back in his suit.

The big thug in the passenger seat laughed until he snorted. “Good one, Miss Wilson.”

She smoothed her dress as if she was a Southern Belle at a cotillion. “Thank you.”

I ignored the gun barrel inches from my side. “You work for Gambino, isn't that right, Leo?”

The gun never wavered. “I provide security for Mr. Gambino's various establishm
ents.”

“How does one get a position like that, Mr. De Palma?” Laura asked politely.

Leo's gun held steady like he'd done this plenty of times. “One graduates with a degree in accounting four months before the stock market crashes. I did odd jobs awhile and demonstrated I'll do whatever it takes. Last year, the company I was working for transferred me to Los Angeles.”

“Now you work at a speakeasy, carry a gun and a straight edge, and force people off the road.”

Leo's jaw clenched. “I do what I have to. Now shut the fuck up. Pardon my French, Miss Wilson.”

Laura smiled like they were old pals. “Apology accepted.”

The man definitely had two sides—one intelligent and sophisticated, the other dangerous and brutal. A deadly combination I couldn't underestimate.

We reached the city. Only a handful of cars were parked in the small lot behind Gambino's speakeasy. Leo stuck the .45 inside his suit coat. “Don't try anything, Mr. Donovan, Miss Wilson.”

I forced myself not to fight my way out of the situation. I held Laura's hand as the three goons escorted us to the back entrance of the club.

They led us through a musty-smelling storage room filled with dozens of barrels and wooden crates containing bottles of whiskey and other bootleg liquor. Leo rapped on a closed door. “I've got the package, boss.”

A thin man, mid-thirties with slick black hair, sat at a massive oak desk. He wore a tailored three-piece gray suit with a red carnation. A diamond on his right hand was bigger than a sugar cube and no doubt left a heck of a bruise. I didn't need an introduction. This was Slick Ray Gambino. He rose and set both hands on his hips. “Who's the dame?”

Standing between Laura and me, Leo ran a finger around the inside of his tight collar. “Laura Wilson.”

Gambino huffed, and his nostrils flared like a racehorse entering a starting gate. “You kidnapped a movie star
and
a famous mystery writer?”

“No, boss. We were going to invite him to meet with you, but Mr. Donovan didn't want to come willingly.” He glanced at me. “Is that fairly accurate?”

Laura smirked. “I suppose technically it's true.”

Gambino rushed around his desk and smacked Leo across the face. “You roughed him up, tossed her in the car, and pulled a heater on them both, I assume.”

“It didn't happen that way, Mr. Gambino.” Leo ran a hand over his chin. “Mr. Donovan wrecked his car. He received a few scrapes and cuts, but the Model T he was driving looks even worse.”

The tall driver snickered then cleared his throat. His face took on a somber expression.

Gambino thumped his chest. “You think this is funny?”

“No, boss.”

Gambino ran a hand through his hair. “Beat it, the three of you.”

They didn't have to be told twice. Gambino gestured toward two vacant leather chairs facing his desk, like we were old friends who'd dropped by on Sunday after church.

Laura sat in a chair, checked her look in a compact mirror, and fluffed her hair. She was playing a role.

I sat and dabbed at the cut over my left eye with the bloody handkerchief.

Gambino crossed the room to a cabinet in the corner where a white sign on the wall read
House Rules: Members Only, Prohibition Will Be Strictly Enforced, No Gambling, No Weapons, No Profanity in Front of Ladies. Management.
He tossed me a cigar box with a red cross on it and returned to his desk.

Laura grabbed the first-aid kit, such as it was. Making every effort to keep blood from her dress, she cleaned my cut with alcohol then placed a bandage above my brow.

“Mr. Donovan, Miss Wilson.” Gambino cleared his throat. “This never should've happened.”

I shrugged. “You have an employee who doesn't follow orders.”

“What I got is a putz from Chicago who hasn't realized we do things differently in Los Angeles.” He drummed his fingers on the desk. “Sorry about your car.”

Laura looked up through her eyelashes. “It was a rental, and I hardly consider it a loss. Matter of fact, Mr. De Palma did me a favor. I told Jake, I don't know how many times, to take the clunker back and get something a little sportier. I mean, I'm an actress.”