Hollywood Buzz (17 page)

“Uh-huh. I have a date.”

“This is wonderful. You look very nice.” She paused.

“Yes, verr-ry nice,” Bela purred. “Perhaps, Ilka, you must look in your herbs for a branch of volfsbane to give our Pooo-chi. For protection.”

I laughed. Wolfsbane was a poisonous herb Professor Van Helsing found could be used to stop wolves. Another critical discovery: it was effective for vampire protection.

Ilka’s tinkly laugh was almost an afterthought. “Really, Uncle! What time can we expect your return, Pucci?”

“Not sure exactly.” I grinned suggestively. “Late, I hope.”

Ilka and Bela chortled politely; their guest remained silent.

It didn’t strike me as rude that they didn’t rush to introduce her—many stars were fanatics about their privacy after all. Maybe they’d fill me in later.

“I better get a move on,” I said, taking a couple of backward steps. “By the way, Gunnar’s not home. Had to go back to the studio.”

“Too bad.”

Coupled with the relief showing in Ilka’s face, the regretful reply didn’t ring true. I noted that her hair was down tonight. She patted the sweep of platinum and grinned. “Pucci, I got the part.”

“Great news!” I exclaimed. “Congratulations.”

Ilka was beaming now and so was I.

“I should hear tomorrow where the shooting will take place. I will let you know. Perhaps you can stop by.”

I agreed to try.

As I stole off into the dark, I thought I heard Ilka say in an undertone to her companions, “Poisons. Maybe this not something we should joke about…”

Getting into the Packard, I was still trying to interpret what I heard when the sound of tires spinning through scattered loose gravel grabbed my attention. Now what?
Celebrity news hounds?

Chapter Twelve

Benedict Canyon to Sunset Boulevard to Beverly. Sam’s directions had been a breeze up until now. The intersection where Sunset met Beverly was crammed with cars and people. I sat waiting for a break, hoping Sam wasn’t the impatient type.

I glanced at the sights. The Garden of Allah. The name conjured up Moroccan architecture, Aladdin and his lamp, belly dancers and someone swooping in on a magic carpet. Yet the style replicated the white stucco and red tile so typical of the Hollywood area. Not that I would term anything else about the place before me “typical.” A grand two-story main building and a maze of one- and two-story private bungalows dominated lush grounds that included colored spotlights angled to show off select buildings and a smattering of palm trees. I’d heard about
the complex,
a former estate of Alla Nazimova, now a mix of apartments and hotel rooms favored by members of the literary and intellectual film communities. F. Scott Fitzgerald, Dorothy Parker, Robert Benchley, and Orson Welles were known to stop by; Greta Garbo and Errol Flynn dashed in for drinks or a meal now and again. I zoomed in on the group milling about near the canopied main entrance, hoping to at least spot a celebrity. Bad luck.

Traffic had begun moving again. Slowly. What I wouldn’t give to trade the Packard for Aladdin’s magic flying carpet.

Back at the Dunns’, when I’d been up in the tower looking down on Hollywood, the lights had seemed bountiful. Street level was different. There was an overall sense the lighting had been dimmed. But what I was observing also made hogwash out of D.B.’s claim the other evening that there’d been a drop in tourism since the start of the war. The sidewalks were teeming, a stream of revelers filing nonstop through the crosswalk, completely oblivious to the backup of cars waiting to cross. What was going on? I scanned the crowd. Lots of uniforms, but plenty were dressed to the nines in evening attire, too. A motion picture premiere, perhaps?

I strained to see if there was a theater letting out nearby. I shrugged. Who knew? Maybe a new club or restaurant.

I crept past the Trocadero Restaurant, LaRue’s Bar, and the El Morocco before the pace finally picked up. At the next intersection, I veered the Packard down a side street, across Santa Monica Boulevard and, a few blocks and turns later, I was in an industrial pocket of small office buildings and warehouses. The area was deserted and a little seedy—quite a comedown from the buzz and glitz I’d just passed through.

Thinking maybe I’d taken a wrong turn somewhere, I pulled over to the curb, parked under a street lamp. In the dim light, I strained to read the directions Sam had written out for me. There would be no mainstream Hollywood night life for me, I discovered. I was dead on course and within seconds of the restaurant Sam had selected.

To my further surprise and dismay, the “street” I was looking for was really an alley. I hesitated at its entrance. The passage was pitch black except for a well lit building about three-quarters of the way down the block. A number of cars were parked in front and a prominent sign atop—in English but with Chinese characters stacked to one side—confirmed I’d reached the designated meeting point. M
AY
Lee’s. I locked the passenger door and maneuvered the Packard slowly down the alleyway to a vacant slot in front. Bamboo shades covered the large front windows, but escaping light and moving shadows assured me that the restaurant was open. I got out and stepped lively to the entrance.

A tug on the heavy glass door released a blast of warm, oily, food-laden air. A small reception area inside was deserted. I hovered at the cash register, waiting for the hostess and scanning the tables for a sign of Sam.

I felt ridiculous in Della’s lovely aubergine frock and my open-toe patent leather heels. Clearly, May Lee’s was a restaurant frequented by workers from the neighborhood businesses who’d come direct from their jobs. It was a male crowd for the most part, but even the two women seated at a small table off to one side were clad in coveralls, their heads wrapped in bandannas.

Compounding my discomfort, rather than the white tablecloths and candle glow I’d been anticipating, the tables were laminated plastic, the room harshly lit. All around me the red-tasseled, pink, green and white Chinese lanterns hanging from the ceiling looked as if they’d seen better days. Stained red carpet covered the floor.

There was a bright side. The food must be excellent. Only one of the booths along the walls was vacant and the tables in the center of the room were all occupied as well.

Noticing four men in a window booth staring at me, I blushed. I fidgeted under their gaze until a sudden spray of noise and smells diverted their attention. A diminutive Chinese woman, carrying a tray laden with dishes of steaming food, had pushed through the swinging doors along the wall down from where I stood. I caught a glimpse of kitchen chaos as the doors bounced to a close behind her.

At first glance, the young woman looked ill-prepared to tote such an enormous load. Not only was she a wisp, but she wore a high-necked turquoise brocade dress that was floor length, form-fitting and, by all appearances, restrictive. A hip-high slit and well-toned arms partly made up for the tightness of her costume and slim frame.

I watched the tray glide across the room as though on a conveyor belt to the window booth. The men clearly delighted in the young woman’s presence, and there was a lot of friendly bantering while dish after dish was served. As a sort of finale, the waitress slid a platterful of something into a large bowl of broth. Loud crackling and a burst of steam—like a basket of French fries hitting a vat of hot oil—followed.

“Sizzling rice soup,” a voice whispered in my ear, as heavy hands pressed down on my shoulders.

“Sam!” I exclaimed, whisking around, hand at my heart. “You scared the wits out of me.”

Standing there, an impish grin on his face, silky spikes of dark umber hair veiling his forehead, Sam looked every inch the altar boy. And devilish prankster. Well, why not? He’d pulled one over on me. Appeared out of thin air, quiet as a mouse. I hadn’t even noticed the door opening. How had he done it?

Truth was, I didn’t care. I was disappointed with the place, uncomfortable in my dress, and uninterested in playing childish games.

Sam, correctly sensing I’d found nothing amusing about his sneak attack, adjusted his glasses and tried getting his mischievous grin under control. He wasn’t completely successful. The corners of his mouth remained curled upwards.

“Sorry,” he said.

The apology seemed insincere, his behavior odd, but I gave him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe I was being too peevish. The real point in coming to May Lee’s was to discuss remaking parts of the WASP film, right?

I smiled weakly. “It’s okay. Rough afternoon. I’m a little jumpy.”

Sam started to ask about what happened, but the young Chinese woman was descending upon us in a flurry of short, quick steps. Her head inclined slightly, she greeted us with “I May Lee,” reached under the counter that held the cash register, grabbed two menus, then gestured for us to follow. A ponytail so long it nearly reached her buttocks swept her back like a pendulum as she shuffled briskly ahead.

Sam steered me by the elbow, the gesture grating on my self-reliant nature. The behavior seemed inbred in him; he’d directed me in this manner before. Well, not tonight. I wrenched my elbow from his grasp.

May Lee led us toward the vacant booth. A few heads bobbed up as we navigated past.

“I should have told you to dress casually,” Sam whispered.

Yes, you should have
.

“But you look so lovely in purple, I’m glad I didn’t.”

Hmmm.
“Thank you,” I said coolly as we slid into the booth.

“Two beers and pot stickers,” Sam said to May Lee, tucking in opposite me.

I caught Sam’s eye. “Have you been here before?”

“No. I live nearby but I’m not comfortable…”

His appearance projected discomfort, indeed. Hunched forward on the table, arms crossed, brow furrowed, he sat mute, totally at a loss for the right words to complete the sentence.

Geez. The question hadn’t seemed complicated to me.

“What were you saying about being uncomfortable?”

“Uh…It’s been a while since I’ve eaten at a Chinese restaurant. I mean, at any restaurant. Uh, I don’t like to eat out alone.”

Big deal. Who did? Solo restaurant stints were part of the routine for a ferry pilot constantly on the go, but my preference was otherwise. My sister pilots felt the same. But curiously I’d always associated the quirk with women.

Sam changed the subject. “You had a bad afternoon. What happened?”

I spent a moment considering the possible replies. How about: Roland Novara won’t listen to me because I’m a woman. Or: Frankie’s plane was sabotaged and I don’t know what’s being done to find the person who did it, nor can I ask anyone about it. Maybe: I found a hush-hush memo and enemy film stashed in the house where I’m staying.

Finally, I turned to the only subject I felt free to talk about.

“They’re saying now that Derrick Brody was murdered.” I sighed heavily. “To think we were with him just hours before it happened. He seemed like a decent man. Who would do such a thing? I don’t believe for a moment it was Russell Chalmers, do you?”

Sam’s elbows slid from the table and he sat up straight. “Chalmers? Where’d you hear that? The papers said foul play, but I didn’t read anything about him.”

I’d forgotten that the news of Chalmers being brought in for questioning wasn’t public knowledge yet. Gus had told me about it. Since he hadn’t asked me to keep the information secret, I went ahead and shared the scuttlebutt about investigators on the scene making an incriminating discovery.

Sam listened attentively, keeping his gaze on me, but he seemed to be adjusting his socks while I talked. He was in that position—chin jutted forward over the tabletop, hands fumbling somewhere near the floor—when our appetizer and drinks appeared.

While May Lee arranged the glasses and two bottles of beer on top of the table, I leaned back and took a discreet look underneath. Sam had not been adjusting his socks. He was scratching his legs. Had something bit him? Did he have a rash? He’d been sick.

Sam, having satisfied his itch, sat up and took a long pull of beer, then tugged the bottle from his mouth with a jerk and, holding it out mid-air, waited for a toast.

I decided to ignore the rude behavior, attributing the sudden urge to scratch, as well as the parched mouth, to a case of jitters over our date. I took my sweet time, however, pouring my beer into my glass. Bad manners were bad manners. A grown man ought to have a better grip.

“To Brody,” we said simultaneously.

Sam took another long swallow, while I took a sip. Beer wasn’t a favorite, but it was either that or tea—an even less festive choice.

Sam obviously was satisfied. At the moment he was eying the bottom of his nearly drained bottle.

May Lee returned. “Take you order?”

Sam did the honors. He requested several dishes. It might have been a while since Sam had eaten at a Chinese restaurant, but he hadn’t lost his familiarity with favored dishes.

Sam used chopsticks to dip a pot sticker into the soy sauce, quite a feat given its slippery nature. He held the dumpling in a chopsticks vise midway to his mouth as he brought up his visit to the hospital and my mention that Frankie had murmured a few sounds.

“What’d she say?”

Jabbing one of the appetizers with my fork, I slid it around in the soy sauce pool on my plate. “The sounds were really garbled, more a soft moaning, than anything. She seemed to be trying to form words, but nothing made sense. I wonder…Do you suppose if I could repeat the sounds to her, they might bring her back again?”

The idea excited me. I looked at Sam, but he was staring at the wall behind me. His mind was elsewhere.

“Sam?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he pushed his plate away and buried his face in his hands.

After a decent interval, I cleared my throat.

Sam pulled his hands away. “Wha…Oh, sorry. I was remembering the accident.”

I’d forgotten he talked with Frankie shortly before the accident. Could he have seen something? Someone? With a little prompting, might what he saw come back?

I sipped my beer. “I heard maybe it wasn’t an accident. Did you notice anything unusual? Was Frankie worried about anything? It’s important you try to remember. Someone could have tampered with her plane.”

Sam scratched the crook of his arm. “Who-o-o told you?”

“No one told me,” I answered quickly. “It’s a rumor I heard.”

“I didn’t know Frankie would be hur—hurr- hurt.” Sam’s eyes welled up and I reached across the table to pat his arm, stop the nervous scratching. Sam was genuinely broken up about Frankie. Was there more to their relationship than friendship?

He’d stopped scratching. I rubbed his forearm. “It’s okay. It was just something I heard. Scuttlebutt.”

Our main courses, including Sam’s beer, were delivered. I pulled back my hand. Sam swigged from the fresh bottle.

The array of food was unlike anything I’d seen or smelled before. There were paper-thin pancakes, sauces, scallions, peanuts, peas, mushrooms and bamboo shoots. Everything but the kitchen sink, though one could speculate some items had backed up through a drain somewhere, by the look of them.

Sam loaded his plate with a spoonful of this and a spoonful of that, while I approached with caution. The rice looked safe so I scooped a hefty portion from the bowl only to discover it was so sticky I had to knock the clump free with a discreet shove of my finger. To top it, I spooned on a small serving of the chicken, peanut, and pea dish.

Sam clamped a scallop with his chopsticks, but didn’t lift it off his plate. “In our meeting with Novara you didn’t seem so keen on reshooting the target towing sequence. Is that why? You’re afraid what happened to Frankie might happen to you?”

For a millisecond I considered telling him the truth. But, much as I wanted Sam to understand the risk I was up against, I couldn’t divulge the dark secret Max had entrusted to me. Still, I didn’t want him to think I was a sissy or not capable of performing the maneuver.