All That Glitters (4 page)

I ran my finger around the inside of my collar. The bow tie I'd cinched around my neck felt more like a noose.

In the lobby, I sat planning how best to explain to Laura why I'd accepted the party invitation. When Christine arrived in a form-hugging silver gown and white fur stole, I knew I had my work cut out for me.

She twirled as if stepping from the silver screen. I felt less like a gigolo when she handed me the keys to her roadster. She ran her glossy red fingernails across the satin facing on the lapels of my tuxedo. “You look dashing, Jake.”

I was glad to see the convertible top up when we reached her car. I opened the passenger door for Christine, as if we were a regular couple. I drove cautiously from the hotel as I got used to the stiff suspension and responsive gears of the roadster. By the time we reached the foothills, the car was driving itself and I was just along for the ride.

She called out directions until we pulled into the well-lit circular drive at the Carville Estate, a Spanish-style mansion nestled in the Hollywood Hills. Near the front door, Eric Carville, a drink in one hand, stood arguing with a man six inches shorter and about forty pounds lighter.

Christine shielded her eyes with one hand as we drove past. “The Carville brothers are starting early tonight.”

Todd gestured with a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. His spindly neck was the size of Eric's wrist. His arms appeared to connect with his body without pausing to bother with shoulders. Todd Carville might be a mouse of a man, but he wasn't backing down from his younger brother.

My Pinkerton days taught me not to underestimate a determined man with a slight stature. I wasn't sure if his brother Eric had learned the same lesson.

Two valets in spiffy sapphire-blue uniforms greeted us as I pulled up behind a silver Mercedes. I left the car running and handed the keys to a valet half my age while the other one opened Christine's door and helped her out.

Christine parked herself beneath one of the lights that led to the front door and fluffed her hair. “How do I look?”

“Swell.”

“Just ‘swell'?” Her ocean-blue eyes narrowed into mere slits. “This isn't some tea party. I need a hell of a lot better than ‘swell.' ”

I'd forgotten how insecure actors and actresses could be. “Every woman at the party will be jealous of you tonight.”

She adjusted my bow tie. “Because I'm with you.”

Arms crossed, Eric Carville stood between two marble pillars framing the double front doors. His glass was empty, his brother nowhere in sight. Also missing was a shred of the sophistication Eric displayed at Union Station. Ignoring me, he grabbed Christine's arm and jerked her away from the front door.

“Get your mitts off her.” I didn't care who he was. I didn't like any man laying his hands on any woman that way. More than that, his domineering mug made my stomach lurch. I'd seen the same bullying expression on a hundred other bums pushing around a hundred other dames.

Eric's jaw clenched, and the tendons stood out on his neck. “This isn't any of your business, Donovan.”

“It is tonight.” I yanked his hand from Christine's arm.

Clearly soused, Eric stumbled backward and banged against one of the pillars. He howled like a wounded coyote.

Eric wiped his ear with his hand. He noticed the blood on his fingers, and his lower lip quivered. Tears filled his eyes and rolled down his cheek. He began to sniffle.

Was Eric a kid in a man's body?

He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. Ignoring his bloodied ear, he dried his eyes. “You didn't have to do that.”

I almost apologized. I glanced at Christine who looked away.

I took her arm and led her into the house.

Eric shouted,”You son of a bitch! What's she to you, anyway?”

“She's a lady.”

I paused in a foyer across from a ballroom where dance music played. I studied her face. “Are you okay?”

“A lady, huh?” She hugged me, her words breathless against my ear. “Laura's a lucky gal to have a man like you.”

“What's Eric Carville's problem?”

“Grabbing me, or blubbering like a baby over the sight of blood?”

“Let's start with the easy one: the tears.”

“He's a very sensitive guy, especially when he drinks.” She pulled a compact from her purse and freshened her makeup. “I've never seen anyone talk to Eric like that. I've known plenty who'd like to, but none had the guts, until tonight.”

Now more than ever I wished I hadn't agreed to accompany Christine to the party. I placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “What was that all about?”

She dismissed the question with a wave. “It's a good thing you and Laura Wilson aren't a couple. As gallant as I found your behavior, if you were a couple, you might've cost Laura her job.”

I needed a drink. If Eric was the boozehound he appeared to be, maybe he wouldn't even remember I'd bloodied his ear.

A man in a white tux, red bow tie, and striped vest with gold buttons took my hat, thanked me, and called me sir with a British accent. If it wasn't for an ill-fitting white toupee, he might have been a butler out of central casting. When he bowed, I feared his hair might end up on the floor.

“Good evening, Miss Brody.”

“Thank you, James.” Christine handed over her fur stole, which blended perfectly with the butler's hair. “How's Norman today?”

“Mr. Carville works when he should be resting. He has no business hosting this party, but he rarely listens to me. I'm just his butler.”

Christine chuckled. “If he listens to anyone, it's you.”

“Thank you, ma'am.” He walked away with a noticeable limp.

I led Christine toward the ballroom. “Is Norman Carville not well?”

“It's his heart. The rumor is he has one.”

Inside the ballroom, a photographer raised his camera.

While Christine posed, I stepped aside. She slowly turned, showing off her figure-flattering gown to the photographer. After three pictures, Christine grabbed my arm and pulled me into the shoot.

I tried not to show my discontent over being around dozens of actors I didn't know at a party I was reluctantly attending. I just wanted to find Laura and set things straight with her before she spotted Christine and me.

I blinked rapidly, helping my eyes adjust to the flash. With tall ceilings, a twelve-piece band, and a dance floor, the room seemed more like a nightclub than a ballroom. I'd been to parties like this before, sprinkled with actors and rich businessmen who owned expensive cars and flashy dames.

A part of me wanted to run screaming from the house, but Laura was somewhere in the room. I knew it with the same certainty that I knew booze would help me make it through the night.

As we moved through the crowd, people greeted Christine as if the party was a movie premiere. I couldn't escape the impression that most were wondering who the hell I was.

Christine slipped her arm in mine. “You're making it too obvious you're searching for Laura Wilson.”

“I am not.”

I followed her eyes to the far corner of the dance floor. Laura, in a black clinging dress I didn't recognize, was dancing with her other costar, Roland Harper, to a Cole Porter tune, a bit too close for my comfort. Her dimpled smile and dark curls might give her the girl-next-door look the studio was after, but plenty of men nearby were admiring the backless dress and black spiked heels I was certain weren't in her suitcases from New York.

“Unclench your jaw, baby. He's harmless.”

Before I could set Christine straight, the music ended, and Laura excused herself from Harper and sat at a table beside Todd Carville. Laura could take care of herself around a playboy like Harper or a bore like Eric. Nevertheless I breathed a sigh of relief that she seemed to prefer spending time with Todd.

“I'll go powder my nose. Grab me a champagne cocktail, will you, dear?”

Christine made her way through the room, progressing slowly as she stopped to exchange kisses and rave about other women's gowns that were far less impressive than hers.

She reached Todd Carville and Laura's table and kissed Laura's cheek. She sat beside her and held her hand in a welcome-to-Hollywood kind of way.

I headed for the bar and caught the attention of one of the two bartenders in white dinner jackets. “Two champagne cocktails, please.” With Christine out of view, I blew out a sigh of relief.

“Make mine a Manhattan.”

Beside me stood a familiar fortyish man. His crisp voice, thin mustache, and tailored clothes presented an urbane and sophisticated presence. He studied my face and wrinkled his brow. “You look like a patient bracing for dental surgery.”

Maybe the party wasn't filled with stiffs and egotistical actors after all. “It's that obvious?”

“That obvious.” He stuck out his hand with a smile I recognized from the big screen. “I'm William Powell. Call me Bill.”

I shook William Powell's hand. Bill? I might be able to summon the courage to call him Bill, but I'd always think of him as William Powell, one of Hollywood's most debonair leading men. “Jake Donovan.”

“Sure. The mystery writer and former sleuth from New York. Word is you're in Hollywood to write a screenplay for the Carvilles.”

On the drive from the train station Christine suggested I punch up the
Midnight Wedding
screenplay. Now this. “I'm not here to write a screenplay,” I said a bit too forcefully, not wanting the rumor to spread and possibly get back to Laura.

“I ran into your pal Dashiell Hammett last week. We had a few drinks at a local speakeasy. Within minutes, he was entertaining the entire establishment with hilarious stories about your detective days together. Did you really hot-wire Fatty Arbuckle's car?”

“Dashiell did that!”

Powell chuckled then stared at the bartender with more than a little impatience. The actor's penchant for late-night activities, along with Ronald Colman and Richard Barthelmess, earned them the nickname of Hollywood's Three Musketeers. “So, why aren't you enjoying the party, Jake?”

“I just spent several days in a cramped train compartment on a bed the size of an ironing board. I'd prefer to be at the hotel in a soft, comfortable bed.”

His eyes twinkled like I'd seen in the movies. “I couldn't help notice you arrive with Christine Brody. She's one sweet patootie! Keep the drinks coming, and I'm sure you'll be at your hotel in short order.”

That wasn't going to happen. Nevertheless, Powell proved to be friendlier and more likable than the handful of Hollywood actors I knew when I was an L.A. Pinkerton. “Congratul
ations on your upcoming role in
The Thin Man
. You'll make a perfect Nick Charles.”

“Not much of a challenge. My character drinks from morning till night and is in love with his wife.”

Eric Carville entered the ballroom, drinking from a flask. Being drunk didn't excuse his boorish behavior toward Christine.

Across the crowded dance floor, I spotted Laura dancing with Todd Carville. Shorter than Laura, he was about as graceful as a three-legged cow. I wanted to cut in, but the last thing I'd do was intrude on her studio business. Still, I had to explain why I was here with Christine.

The busy bartender finally set our drinks on the counter.

While I grabbed the two champagne glasses, Powell raised his glass. “To Prohibition.”

I laughed and drank with him.

A blonde in her early twenties, with a plunging neckline, slipped her arm in Powell's. It was hard to ignore her glamorous eyes or the warm smile she gave him. She snatched the actor's glass before he'd taken a sip, and drank it all.

Powell signaled for another then introduced us. “Darling, this is the famous mystery writer, Jake Donovan. Jake, my wife, Carole Lombard.”

She handed him the empty glass. “Ex-wife, darling.”

“Until the judge signs the decree, I can always hold out hope.”

“A pleasure to meet you.” Lombard grinned at my two glasses. “A two-fisted drinker, Mr. Donovan? Even Bill takes it one at a time.”

“I'm with someone, technically.”

“ ‘Technically,' that's an interesting choice of words, for a writer. When a woman leaves the room and asks a man to order her a drink, it's her way of letting other dames know, keep your mitts off.”

I'd never heard that. “Is that true, Bill?”

He shrugged. “If I knew as much about women as my reputation says, I wouldn't be divorcing such a beautiful young dish.”

After blowing Powell a kiss, Lombard patted my hand. “At least she didn't ask you to hold her purse. Who is this dame with her sights set on you?”

Powell cleared his throat. “Christine Brody.”

Lombard flinched at the mention of the name and squeezed my arm. “Oh, you poor man. You're going to need something stronger than champagne.”

She glanced at Powell, and her eyes grew as cold as the ice in his empty glass. “When it comes to men, Christine's about as choosy as a bus driver.”

“I'm in a relationship and not at all interested in Miss Brody.”

“Oh, you are naïve.” Lombard cackled. “Like that will matter to Christine. She's the kind of girl who buys toothbrushes by the dozen and keeps them around just in case. I'd better take off before she returns and I rip her blond hair out by the black roots.” She stepped away before flashing her ex-husband a smug grin. “Speaking of Christine, darling, did you sign the divorce papers?”

“Reluctantly.”

“I still love you.” With a wave of her fingers, she glided across the room.

Powell let out a long sigh. “She doesn't wear underwear, you know.”

Carole Lombard?
“Your wife?”

A head-turning laugh burst from Powell. He dabbed his mouth with a monogrammed handkerchief. “No, no, she does. At least she did six weeks ago, when we last made whoopee.” He swept up another Manhattan from the bar. “Christine Brody.”

“How do you…” I shouldn't have asked.

“Christine's cultivated the reputation for years. It's hardly Hollywood's best-kept secret. If you don't believe me, ask her for a slow dance when she returns.”

“I'll do no such thing.”

He chuckled and pulled a silver case from his pocket. He offered me a cigarette, which I declined. He lit one with a gold lighter. “Let's mingle.”

“Egad!” Powell nearly shrieked. He tugged on my arm and led me in the opposite direction. “It's Louella Parsons.”

I peered over my shoulder at a broad-shouldered woman in her early fifties. She wore a pink paisley scarf and a blue velvet hat with a pheasant feather that dipped toward her thick brows with each step. Her yellow flowered dress reminded me of the kitchen curtains in our house in Queens when I was growing up. Her appearance contrasted with the impeccable gowns of the party's actresses, but her determined look left no doubt that she didn't give a damn. “Who's Louella Parsons?”

“Are you serious? Hollywood's biggest gossip columnist. Now she's added a radio program. Worst of all, she possesses an uncanny ability to sense scandal.”

Louella waved her hand. “Oh, Bill. Bill Powell.”

Powell froze. He squinted then transformed himself, his face brightening with delight. “Louella.” He kissed her cheek.

She squeezed both his hands. Her eyes had the tenacity of a teamster. “I'm so sorry your marriage didn't work out. I'm sure the rumors about Carole and Clark Gable are just that.”

“Well, you would know.” He tugged me forward. “Louella, this is Jake Donovan, the mystery writer.”

She chuckled. “Hollywood's filling up with novelists determined to write screenplays.”

“I'm strictly a novelist. I'm only here”—I couldn't share anything about Laura with Hollywood's most notorious gossip—“for a few days.”

Louella's claws looked ready to appear until she glanced over my shoulder. “Bill, your ex seems to be flirting with Eric Carville.”

Carole Lombard was chatting with an obviously intoxicated Eric Carville.

“Excuse me while I give her a piece of my mind.” Louella patted his hand then hurried toward Carole and Eric.

Powell chuckled. “She'll do no such thing. Louella will probably tell them what a perfect cad I am. Come on, we may only have seconds to make our escape.”

He thumbed toward Eric as we slipped away. “That twit is one of the most despised men in Hollywood. He's a talented, charismatic man…until he drinks. He's a mean drunk.”

“What's his brother like?”

“Todd's the financial brains of the studio. A quiet, unassuming chap, the kind that I never trust. I'm not a gossip, but the two brothers are practically circling their father's corpse so they can control the studio and get rid of each other. A regular Cain and Abel.”

Powell stopped at a vacant table at the edge of the dance floor. “Here comes your date, and I do believe I recognize the fetching woman with her.” He finished his drink and crushed the cigarette into the empty glass. He let out a low whistle. “Last time I saw Laura Wilson, she wore this red figure-flattering dress that really sizzled.”

Sizzled?

Laura ignored me. Her soft doe eyes never left Powell. I dismissed my suspicions until she kissed him on the cheek. “What a delight to see you again, Bill.”

Again?
She never mentioned she'd met William Powell.

He answered with a hug. “My only reason for coming tonight was the chance of seeing you, my dear. You look sensational.”

Christine ignored Laura and me. She staked her claim by setting her hand on Powell's arm and purring. “I was so sorry to hear the
dreadful
news about your divorce.”

“Now, now, it's not final yet. Besides behind every storm cloud is a shimmering rainbow. Though, in my case, the pot of gold ends at Carole's lovely, delicate feet.”

I might have been in Singapore for all the two women seemed to notice.

Christine appeared determined to take possession of Powell as she subtly pressed her breast, unencumbered by a brassiere, against his arm. “You'll survive, I'm sure.”

“I try to live one day at a time. A dance might take my mind off my grief.” He grabbed Christine's hand. “You don't mind, do you, Jake?”

Mind? I was totally relieved. “Be my guest.”

“Miss Wilson.” He bowed toward Laura then handed his glass with the cigarette butt to a passing waiter. He gave me a nudge. “Don't take any wooden nickels.”

As he led Christine to the dance floor, I caught myself staring at her dress to confirm or disprove Powell's assertion about her lack of underwear.

Laura raised an eyebrow. “What are you looking at?”

If a man ever answered a question like that, the sap deserved everything coming to him. “Is that a new dress?”

“This old thing?”

On the edge of the dance floor, Powell led Christine past his soon-to-be ex-wife. I braced myself. “Better duck.”

As Christine passed by, Lombard stuck out her tongue.

Laura covered her mouth but couldn't hold back a laugh.

“Are you still mad at me?” I handed her Christine's glass of champagne.

“I should be.” Laura sipped the drink. “But alcohol has charms that soothe the savage breast.”

“I'm fairly certain that's music.”

“Tomato, tomahto.” She slipped my arm in hers. “Fresh air might do us both some good.” She led me toward the French doors.

A mist hovered over a swimming pool lit with a blue glow. Lights from homes shimmered in the hills below. Beyond were Hollywood lights.

Before she asked why I was at the party, I told Laura about the ride from the train station. I explained I accepted Christine's invitation to the party out of fear of offending one of Laura's costars.

Laura smirked. “As long as you keep your eyes off her bottom, I think the evening will turn out swell.”

I tried to keep the sigh of relief from being too audible. The lights from the hills below shimmered under the moonless sky. Under different circumstances, I'd take Laura in my arms, but fate forced us to play the roles of mere pals. “How long have you known William Powell?”

“We met two years ago.” Laura finished the champagne without meeting my eyes. “Bill was in New York. You were in Florida.”

Just the word
Florida
sent chills up the back of my neck. Frustrated by Laura's unwillingness to commit, I'd walked out on our relationship. What a moron. “This isn't how I planned our first night in Hollywood.”

She set the glass on a wrought-iron table next to the pool. “You're not enjoying yourself?”

I restrained myself from wrapping my arms around her. “I am now.”

Inside, the band began a new song. I recognized it as one of Laura's favorites, “Deep Purple.” I held out a hand. “Would you care to dance with an old friend from Queens?”

Laura's smile reminded me of her schoolgirl crush in high school.

I swept her into my arms. “You were dancing with Todd Carville earlier. Did you spot anything interesting on the top of his head?”

“Would you prefer to dance or insult my employer?”

“I apologize,” I said. “But as long as you can't be with me then I prefer you spend your time with…”

“Todd's a brilliant man,” she barked.

“That's what I was going to say.”

Laura kept a respectable distance at first, but as the slow music played, she pressed herself against me, like old times. “Do you remember where we were the first time we danced to a real band?”

The question was the type that sent shudders through men the world over. “Boston?”

“I'll give you a hint, only one. It was the first time we ever…spent the weekend together.”