Hollywood Buzz (25 page)

Ah, but Max hadn’t asked me not to tell anyone about finding sugar in the tank of the wreckage. She’d only said I couldn’t tell anyone where I’d heard it.

“Miss C told you I’m on a case…” I began, quickly bringing Gunnar up to speed.

Gunnar was astounded by the news. If he was to be believed—and I’d decided to trust him, hadn’t I?—he had no knowledge that sabotage was behind the incident. If he, with his connections to the intelligence community, wasn’t aware of the sabotage, did that mean the enemy could be ruled out? Could it be, as we’d been speculating all along, that the deed had been “friendly fire,” meant as a warning to WASP pilots? That someone in our own Army Air Force wanted us to throw down our wings and leave the flying to the men?

Gunnar didn’t have any ready answers to what was going on. Not even any guesses.

“But, Pucci, if the objective was to frighten off the WASP, why has the discovery been kept under wraps? Wouldn’t the idea be to publicize the incident?”

“And launch a full scale investigation?” I shook my head. “No way. The incident is being kept hush-hush because the saboteur is ‘one of their own.’” I glanced over at him. “Word about the crash will get out soon enough via the grapevine. They’ll make sure of that. Then the news will leap like wildfire from one ready room to the next.”

Gunnar looked at me long and hard. “I’ll make some contacts soon as we’re on the ground. See what I can learn.”

“One more thing,” I said. “You brought up the P-51 cameraman. Sam Lorenz was on that crew, and he was a friend of Frankie’s. He’s got a drug problem, did you know?”

“We know…”

According to Gunnar, Sam had been assigned to Fort Roach in spite of the known addiction, the shortage of writers having worked to his advantage. That, and the certificate indicating he’d completed a three-month treatment program at the state hospital. Gunnar hadn’t known he was back on drugs.

“But I’m not shocked…”

The engine lurched; my stomach heaved. The engine sputtered, and the gyro and every needle on the panel hiccupped wildly.

Tiny beads of perspiration had formed along Gunnar’s hairline.

“You all right?” I asked when everything was steady again.

“Fine.” He swiped the line of sweat with his finger. “You might have told me about the sabotage before I buckled up.”

I sighed. “That’s funny coming from you. You know what it’s like to be sworn to secrecy.”

Gunnar cleared his throat.

“Sorry. That was unfair. Our little tight-lipped conspiracy put you in a dodgy plane.”

“At least I’m with you,” he said with goofy grin meant to cut some of the tension.

I smiled then grew serious. “The fact that the problem is intermittent suggests it’s something in the fuel feed. We’re almost at March. I think we can make it.”

There was no hesitation. “You’re the pilot. March Field it is, then.”

I smiled at the vote of confidence.

March Field came into view in the distance.

“We’re there.” I reached to flip on the radio transmitter. Without warning, the engine shuddered, then quit. Heat surged through my body. Instinctively, I dropped the nose in an effort to hold a glide pattern. I looked below. We were over chaparral country. There were clumps of dwarf trees and dense thickets of mesquite brush. There was plenty of flat open space as well. Could be worse.

I tightened my seat belt. Gunnar followed suit. An uncanny calm came over me as I began running emergency procedures, rapidly checking lines, gauges and controls.

“Can I do something?” Gunnar’s voice sounded loud in the eerie silence.

With a swift motion, I flipped a switch to put us on another tank. My tongue pressed against the parched roof of my mouth, making a sticky sound. I swallowed to get some moisture going.

“Not yet,” I managed finally, the voice sounding nothing at all like mine.

I pumped the throttle with vigor. The engine failed to react. I put the Staggerwing into a gentle turn, heading for the clearest flat area around. We continued to lose altitude. The propeller caught a shaft of sunlight. I watched it slowly windmill in the slipstream. I glanced at the altimeter, then over to Gunnar. He didn’t say anything, but signaled thumbs up.

I went back to manipulating the pump lever, mixture controls and throttle. Suddenly, the engine backfired—once, then twice. I held my breath. A sputter. Then, with a roar, the Pratt & Whitney sprang back to life.

I shoved the throttle to stop the descent and gain airspeed. Gently, I pulled up, banking to the left to get us back on course.

Chapter Eighteen

My stomach settled slowly.

“Nice work,” Gunnar said calmly, looking a little pale.

I grinned. “Thanks. Nothing to it.”

Gunnar studied the instruments. “Still think the problem’s in the fuel feed?”

“More than ever. The tanks are on separate systems. We were on a wing tank. I switched us to the reserve. Seems to have licked the problem.”

Gunnar smiled thinly. “How about setting us down before the reserve goes bonzo?”

I called the tower for clearance, entered the pattern, and began a slow descent.

As we were approaching our runway, Gunnar said softly, “You cannot go up in the P-51 until we know what’s going on.”

“But all the arrangements are made. Novara, the film crew, they’re driving out to March, hauling out all the equipment. They may already be here. Besides,” I added, already knowing he was right but reluctant to give in, “it’s possible the fuel system wasn’t tampered with at all. Could be mechanical failure.”

“Your pal’s plane was sabotaged. That’s enough for me. Should be for you, too.” Gunnar checked his watch. “You can try to catch Novara and the film crew. They may not have left Fort Roach yet. Afterwards, we’ll fix things with Beacock together.”

A chance to fly the P-51 was hard to walk away from. I sighed. “Righto.”

Set up for the landing, I cranked the handle for the landing gear and cocked the nose into the crosswinds. Dropping us gently onto the runway, I worked the brakes and flaps to slow us down. A turn near the end of the runway, and we were taxiing toward our designated spot. At Hangar Ten, I flipped off all switches and cut the engine. Gunnar and I breathed loud sighs of relief.

Down on the tarmac, we went our separate ways. I searched out Novara and the film crew, discovering to my relief that only a team of gaffers and grips had arrived so far. My luck held when I called Fort Roach. Novara was still there. Without providing any detail, I explained that a crisis had arisen at March Field and that filming would have to be postponed. He was irritated, but grateful they hadn’t wasted time making the trip. An urgent new film project had been thrown his way. He’d be working late into the night as it was.

Gunnar and I joined up again to meet with Major Beacock. We provided a different spin, indicating that a snag had developed back at Fort Roach necessitating a delay in the film shoot. Beacock agreed to reschedule whenever we could pin down a date in the future.

Gunnar stayed on to talk with Beacock and I went to see Max. She had taken on the post-flight inspection of the Staggerwing. She thought she could get back to me this afternoon.

I hitched a ride back to Clover Field with the film crew.

***

It was time to put Gunnar’s Gypsy and herb theory to rest. I navigated the Packard in the general direction of the Dunns’, taking a slight detour through the streets of Culver City first.

The dark-haired man with the walrus mustache who’d been filling in for Gus earlier in the day was still at the kiosk. I parked and scooted up the walk.

15
JAP WARSHIPS HIT; THREE SUNK
. I saw the bold headline before I reached the kiosk. Closer in, I read the subhead: U.S.
NAVY FLYERS DESTROY 88 NIP PLANES
. Good work. Way to go boys, I cheered inside.

The man had his back to me, straightening a pile of papers below the counter. I felt a twinge of regret at noting the absence of the can of flowers, but my greater remorse was the growing certainty that I’d been deceived by the immigrant news vendor Gus…or whoever he was.

Gus’ sub straightened and turned to face me. “Top o’the day, darlin’.” He had a pug-nosed Irish face and spidery, oversized eyebrows to match the expansive bristly patch above his lip.

“Help yourself.” With a sweep of his arm, he backed away from the news racks so I could browse.

“Where’s Gus?”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “That scalawag? Skipped without word. The wife’s sick. I’m needed at home. Signed him on to fill in for a month. Now he’s gone.” A worried look seized his face.

“You’re the owner, then?”

The man nodded.

“And you don’t know where to find him? No address?”

“Darlin’, this here’s no military operation. I take what I get. Say—” He pinched an end of his mustache. “Fella was just here askin’ about Gus. Smelled like a copper. Now you’re nosin’ around too…”

My cheeks felt hot, but I looked him straight on. “I’m not
nosin
’,” I huffed. “I’ve been stopping here every morning for a week. Curious, is all.”

Turning on my heel, I marched back to the Packard, my hunch about Gus’ involvement in blackmail, espionage, and possibly murder coming into sharper focus.

***

A ringing telephone greeted me as I entered the side door at the Dunns’.

“Ilka…” I called, racing down the corridor.

She didn’t appear and the phone was still ringing when I arrived at the settee near the staircase. “Hello,” I answered breathlessly.

“Hi, Pucci. Gunnar Rask. Everything okay?”

“I’m fine. Just got in. What’d you find?”

“I need you to keep the particulars confidential for a day or two. Agreed?”

My pulse, which had begun to return to normal after my double-time dash down the hall, speeded up again. I twisted the cord in my hand, pivoting in a circle to glance up the staircase, then into the living room. Coming around full circle, I peered through the open doorway of the library. No one was around. Still, I lowered my voice. “Agreed.”

“You need to be on alert. We’re zeroing in on the saboteur, but we don’t have him in custody yet.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“We’ve talked to the officer who oversaw the accident investigation team. He confirmed what you told me about the mechanic’s findings. The officer decided, on his own, to keep the sabotage conclusion under wraps.” ‘Officer’ came out as more of a snarl than a word.

“Why’d he bury the findings?”

“What you suspected. He saw it as a get-back. A chance to rattle some nerves.
Ladies’
nerves.”

Anger was thudding heavily in my chest. All along we’d speculated that an embittered airman at March might be the saboteur. Still, I never really thought we’d be right. In my heart, I didn’t want to believe that a fellow American would be capable of committing such an act. Now I had to believe it.
How could someone be so twisted?

Gunnar continued, “The major claims he doesn’t know who did it. That he merely decided to falsify the cause of the accident by deeming it a ‘mechanical failure’ for the record.” Gunnar cleared his throat. “Said he assumed he was covering up for one of his men. But, supposedly, he doesn’t know which one.

“His crew, along with anyone else who might have had access to Frankie’s A-24 that day, is being sought for questioning. We’re doing our best to keep the investigation quiet, hoping we’ll catch the rat off guard.”

I sank to the bench nearby. “I’m not sure Miss Cochran heard about Frankie’s passing. Do you know? Was she informed?”

“Uh-huh. Within the past hour.”

I sighed with relief. Gunnar continued. “She asked me to tell you to expect a call from her in the morning. After she’s had a chance to sort things out.”

I forced myself to remain calm, speak reasonably. “Did you talk to the cameraman who took the footage in the hangar?”

“Uh-huh. He remembered Frankie had been arguing with Sam Lorenz. A lover’s spat. He turned his camera on her to get a laugh. Got the opposite. Once he stopped filming her, she went back over to Sam. They made up and everything seemed hunky-dory. He also said there might have been a mechanic there, they’re always in and out of the hangars, but he couldn’t be sure.

“There’s some good news,” Gunnar added. “The insider involved in the blackmail scheme finally showed for the film cans in Landis’ dressing room.”

It had to be
…“Winwar?”

“Yup. I’ve done some digging. Winwar in Italian is
Vinciguerra—
”

Gunnar knew some Italian and pronounced the name “veen chee gwer ah.” He explained the verb
vincere
was “to win,” and
la guerra
“the war.” His working theory was that Winwar had Americanized his name.

Since Pearl Harbor, Italian immigrants living in coastal communities were subject to travel restrictions and a curfew; some had even been forced to move from their homes and relocate inland. Those considered “possibly dangerous” were interned in a camp in Missoula, Montana. Fear of accusation was very real for many innocent Italians; for Winwar, changing his name would have been critical.

My mind leapfrogged. Had I proven myself? Was Gunnar at last ready to pull me from behind the lines, place me at the front? “So Winwar is our man. What do you want me to do next?”

“Er, nothing. We’ve got him under surveillance.”

“And?”

It wasn’t an assignment as I’d hoped, but Gunnar had another bit of good news. While probing Winwar’s affairs, he had unearthed a black market scheme. Novara had indeed purchased Italian leather shoes through him. But, he cautioned, it was unlikely that charges would be brought. Too difficult to prove Novara knew he was buying contraband.

“I’ve been doing all the talking,” Gunnar said. “How about you? Any more discoveries?”

“The vendor I told you about at the kiosk has vamoosed,” I said. “But you already know that. Say…what about Myra? You were going to check into her background.”

Sounding contrite, Gunnar admitted there’d been another oversight. Myra, whose full name was Myra Blade, had taken a two-day leave for a family emergency. She’d left an address where she could be reached. It was bogus.

“Er, MGM personnel also told us she’d been with them for only three weeks. Don’t worry, we’ll track her down.”

Myra
Blade
? My hand slipped into my pocket. I fingered the swastika earring I’d found in my tea cup. Perhaps he shouldn’t be so sure.

“Pucci, there’s more.”

From the tone in his voice, I was glad to be already seated. “Yes.”

“The leaves in Brody’s teacup have been identified. It’s
ma huang
.”

“
Ma huang
?” I asked, stumbling over the pronunciation.

“Pharmaceutical name’s
herba ephedrae
. It’s a Chinese herb.”

“So it’s true. An herb that kills. How’s it work?”

“There are plenty of herbs that can kill, Pucci. People have allergic reactions, some are poisonous by nature. Especially in large doses.
Ma huang
causes constriction of the blood vessels. That brings up blood pressure, which, in turn—in someone susceptible like Brody whose blood pressure was already in the danger zone—can bring down the curtain.”

“Can anyone get ahold of
ma huang
? Where do you get it?”

“Not in a store. The killer most likely obtained it in Chinatown or from some private herb source.”

“Why are you telling me this?” I asked, already sure of his answer.

“Just a reminder about Ilka…”

“Not that again…”

Footsteps echoed in the corridor that I’d raced down minutes ago. A woman in high heels. I could tell from the click-clacking on the stone.

“Pucci, I thought I heard you.” Ilka rounded the corner. “I am making tea. Will you join me?”