Sheri Cobb South (10 page)

A familiar Model A Ford turned the corner, and Frankie’s outlook brightened immediately. Mitch had come after all! She hurried out to the curb just in time to see it go by and to hear the wolf whistle directed her way by the stranger behind the wheel.

I don’t need Mitch Gannon, she reminded herself sternly. I don’t need anybody!

Scarcely five minutes later, a taxicab pulled up beside the curb.

“Where to, lady?” asked the driver.

“Summit Drive, Beverly Hills,” Frankie answered, climbing into the back seat. “I don’t remember the number, but I’ll recognize the house when I see it.”

Or so she thought. But forty-five minutes later, she hadn’t seen anything resembling the boxy Art Deco structure that Arthur Cohen called home. Nor, for that matter, had she seen the gates of Pickfair, or Tom Mix’s house, or Valentino’s Falcon’s Lair, or Gloria Swanson’s mansion. In the meantime, the meter mounted on the dashboard had continued to run.

Frankie leaned forward to speak to the cab driver. “Are you sure we’re on Summit Drive?”

“Did you say Summit?” asked the cabbie, all innocence. “I thought you said Sunset.”

He whipped a U-turn that all but flung her across the seat. Ten minutes later, the cab turned in the driveway in front of the Cohen residence and lurched to a stop. Frankie glanced at the meter and was dismayed to find the fare was almost three dollars—most of it run up on a wild goose chase up and down Sunset Boulevard.

“I guess you’d better wait.” As reluctant as she was to give the dishonest driver any more of her hard-earned money, Frankie was even less eager to be left alone here in case things went sour.

Quickly, before she lost her nerve, she opened the door of the taxi and stepped out onto the paved driveway. The heels of her patent leather pumps clicked out a rhythm on the asphalt as she marched up to the front stoop and rang the doorbell. She heard the indistinct sound of voices from inside, although she could not make out the words they spoke. A moment later the door opened to reveal a solemn-faced young Mexican woman wearing a starched white apron over her plain black dress.

“Good afternoon.” Frankie hurried into speech. “I’d like to see Miss Lamont—Mrs. Cohen, that is—if I may.”

“Who is calling, please?” the maid asked in accented English. The wary expression in her dark eyes gave Frankie to understand she was not the first visitor to call on Letitia Lamont that day.

“I’m Frances Foster.” Realizing her name would mean nothing to Arthur Cohen’s widow, she added, “I don’t know Miss Lamont personally, but I was working on one of her husband’s films when he died. I would like to offer her my condolences.”

“I will ask. Wait here,
por favor
.”

Left alone in the spacious foyer, Frankie surveyed the well-lit expanse of white paint, black lacquer, and chrome. Framed photographs of Letitia Lamont in several of her greatest film roles carried out the black-and-white color scheme, even while her historical costumes provided a counterpoint to the modern furnishings. Here she was dressed as Eleanor of Aquitaine in veil and wimple, here as Ophelia, clad in white and surrounded by wildflowers.

It was a room unlike any Frankie had ever seen. Why, then, was she suddenly thinking of her grandmother’s house? It had been almost five years since her family had closed up the white-columned Greek revival building where her mother had grown up, but Frankie remembered it well enough to know that it would be hard to imagine anything more different from this masterpiece of modern design. Before she had time to ponder the question, the Mexican maid reappeared.

“
Señora
Lamont will see you. This way, please.”

Frankie followed her down a hallway to a room at the back of the house whose large plate glass windows gave a panoramic view of the Hollywood Hills beyond.

It was not the room or the view, but its sole occupant who commanded Frankie’s attention. Letitia Lamont’s simple gray frock, while obviously expensive, was utterly devoid of ornamentation, and the long flowing curls she’d once been famous for were now bobbed into a more modern style. Her makeup—straight from the hand of Mr. Max Factor himself, Frankie didn’t doubt, and much more subtle than the pancake look that had graced the screen a decade ago—could not quite disguise the lines of strain about her eyes and mouth, and in the harsh sunlight streaming in from the windows she looked much nearer forty than thirty. Still, she moved with a grace that caught the eye and wouldn’t let go.

“Miss Lamont—Mrs. Cohen—” stammered Frankie, conscious of a sudden urge to kneel in the presence of this queen of the silent screen. “Thank you for seeing me. I saw your performance as Guinevere years ago. It made me want to become an actress myself.”

Letitia Lamont removed the long cigarette holder from her scarlet mouth.

“Well, aren’t you sweet?” Frankie had imagined Letitia Lamont would have a low, husky voice, but to her surprise, the star spoke with a pronounced Brooklyn accent. “Sorry to keep you cooling your heels in the foyer. Do sit down! It’s been a rough day, to put it mildly.”

“I can imagine,” Frankie said, sinking onto a free-form black sofa. “I only wanted to tell you how sorry I am about—about Mr. Cohen. I was there when he—when it happened.”

“The cops said he collapsed on the soundstage. Is that true?”

“I’m afraid so. We had just resumed filming after lunch when Mr. Cohen came in. He seemed—perturbed.” It was a gross understatement, but she had to start somewhere.

Miss Lamont nodded. “He could be a pill when things didn’t go to suit him, and
The Virgin Queen
was a pet project of his. It’s a shame he couldn’t have lived long enough to see it through to the end.”

“I heard somewhere that his brother had wanted to film it in Technicolor.” There was no point in mentioning that she’d heard it while eavesdropping outside Mr. Cohen’s office.

The great actress smiled sadly, revealing a trace of the stunning beauty she had once been. “You heard right. In fact, it was the subject of more than one disagreement between them. Poor Arthur! He just couldn’t understand that the industry is changing, and he had to change along with it. He even thought I should attempt a comeback. Can you imagine that? Me, in a talkie, with this voice? No, I knew my time was up. Sometimes the best thing you can do is to bow out gracefully.” Her smile faded. “Maybe it’s better for Arthur’s sake that he didn’t live long enough to know he was becoming about as relevant as the horse and carriage.”

“How did his brother react to his death? If you don’t mind my asking,” Frankie added hastily.

“He was devastated. They were very close, never mind that they sometimes got along like oil and vinegar. In some ways they balanced each other. Maurice dragged Arthur kicking and screaming into the modern age, and Arthur reined in some of Maurice’s wilder flights of fancy.”

“Does he plan to continue filming
The Virgin Queen
?”

Miss Lamont shrugged and tapped a scarlet fingernail against her long holder to dislodge the ash clinging to the end of her cigarette. “I haven’t the foggiest idea. He’s still struggling to grasp the fact that Arthur is dead. I doubt poor Maurice can even think clearly enough to imagine how he’ll carry on without him.”

Frankie had to admit it didn’t sound like the picture of a man who had killed his brother in order to grab control of the studio. And yet, could Maurice Cohen’s reaction be attributed, not to grief, but to a guilty conscience?

“I’m sure many of us will miss him,” Frankie said, not quite sure how to steer the conversation in a more informative direction. “I know I will. After all, he gave me my first big break.”

“I see.” The great actress’s mouth tightened and the temperature in the sunny room seemed to drop several degrees. “Miss Foster, if you came here expecting me to make good on my husband’s promises, I’m afraid you’re barking up the wrong tree. I can only suggest you give Hank Winston a call. It’s what my husband would have told you, anyway.”

“Mr. Cohen never promised me anything,” Frankie protested, bewildered by the widow’s suddenly cool demeanor. “In fact, I think he only offered me a job because he was interested in my friend.”

One carefully sculpted eyebrow lifted. “Oh? And what friend was this?”

“Just someone I met on the train west. His name is Mitch Gannon. Your husband offered him a position as best boy because he took some classes in electrical engineering in college.”

Miss Lamont’s brow cleared, and the lines about her mouth relaxed. “Oh, now I understand,” she said. “Yes, I can hear him now: ‘Actresses in this town are a dime a dozen, but a man with a working knowledge of electricity is worth his weight in gold.’ ”

Frankie smiled. “Something like that.”

“I apologize for jumping to the wrong conclusion, but when some girls say they’ll do anything to make it on the silver screen, they do mean
anything
. And I’m well aware that my husband was no saint. I don’t doubt he was happy to oblige a few of them.”

Frankie could feel the heat rise to her face and knew she was blushing. True, the girls at the Studio Club had talked about this very thing, but it was jarring to hear it discussed so casually by the producer’s wronged wife.

“You must have loved him very much, to be willing to forgive such—indiscretions,” Frankie observed.

The great actress cocked her head to one side, as if considering the question. “Loved him? No, I don’t think so. Few people in Hollywood marry for love, and those that do don’t last very long. We made a good team, though, Arthur and I, and I will miss him very much.”

“Had he shown any signs of heart trouble? Or do you believe it was a stroke?”

“No, no signs of ill health at all. Oh, he was under a lot of stress—it’s a stressful business, you know—and I don’t doubt he drank more than he should have. But as for what killed him, I really don’t know. I suppose it could have been either one.”

“Have you thought of asking for an autopsy?” Frankie pressed on. “That way you would know for sure.”

“My husband was Jewish, and Jewish law forbids autopsies as being disrespectful to the body.” Miss Lamont blew a series of smoke rings. “And from my own gentile viewpoint, I can’t see that it would make any difference. Arthur is gone, and no amount of poking and prodding about his body will bring him back.”

“But wouldn’t you like to know for sure if there was anything—unusual—about his death?”

The actress gave a humorless laugh. “Really, Miss—Foster, was it?—you sound almost as if you think my husband was murdered. Isn’t that what autopsies are usually for? Any man in a position of power is sure to make enemies as well as friends, but the idea that anyone would murder him is ridiculous! All we need is for Hedda Hopper or Louella Parsons to get
that
idea into their heads! Now I think you had better go. I would like to lie down and rest a bit before going to the funeral parlor to finalize the arrangements.”

“Of course,” Frankie mumbled, painfully aware of having worn out her welcome. She muttered a last, semi-coherent expression of sympathy, then backed out of the room and into the hallway.

The Mexican maid was nowhere in sight, so Frankie showed herself through the foyer to the door. As she crossed the austere expanse of black, white, and chrome, she suddenly realized why it reminded her of her grandmother’s house. In between the framed photographs of Letitia Lamont’s glory days on the silver screen, she could see faint rectangles of similar size where the white paint was just a shade brighter than the rest of the wall. Clearly, other photographs had once hung here.

In the case of her grandmother’s house, the pictures on the walls had hung there so long that the wallpaper beneath was a completely different color. Those pictures, some darkened with age, had been sold at an estate sale. Why had Miss Lamont’s missing photographs been removed? What had happened to them?

Chapter 9

The Big Sleep (1946)

Directed by Howard Hawks

Starring Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall

Passing through the gates of Glendale’s Forest Lawn Memorial Park, the taxi nosed its way past Cadillacs, Dusenbergs, Lincolns, and even an open-topped Cord whose sleek lines and sporty style struck a jarring note in its current somber surroundings. Beyond the parked automobiles, uniformed policemen stood guard at intervals along a length of velvet rope positioned to hold back a crowd more interested in catching a glimpse of a favorite star than in paying their final respects to Arthur Cohen. A discreet distance away, a gaggle of workers from the Shady Rest Funeral Home leaned on their shovels; after the crowds had gone home, they would go about the grim business of lowering the casket into the ground and covering it with dirt.

“Looks like you’ll have to hoof it from here, ladies,” the taxi driver said, lurching to a stop behind a gray Rolls-Royce. “I can’t get you any closer.”

“Anyway, thanks for trying.” Frankie dug in her little black handbag for the forty-cent fare.

While Frankie paid the driver, Kathleen surveyed the mob that stood between them and Arthur Cohen’s final resting place. “I’m not sure this was such a good idea,” she said, displaying the quintessentially British talent for understatement.

“Of course it is!” Frankie declared with more bravado than she felt. “After all, we were acquainted with the deceased, at least a little bit, which is more than any of those people can say. They have to let us in.”

Quickly, before Kathleen could suffer a change of heart and order the taxi to turn around, Frankie wrenched open the door and stepped out onto the bright green grass. The heels of her black patent leather pumps instantly mired in the soft ground; a lawn this lush was impossible to achieve in California without daily watering. Stepping gingerly to avoid sinking to her ankles, she made her way past the luxurious automobiles and scanned the crowd for the most likely point of attack.

“What a pity we’re not famous,” sighed Kathleen, hurrying to catch up. “Then the crowd would part magically before us.”