Hollywood Buzz (12 page)

“But the saboteur…True, he might be an airman taking crazy revenge because a WASP took his plum stateside job. Or he might be someone out to show that women pilots aren’t as capable. But he might also be an enemy agent, right? Some fifth columnist out to put the fear of the
Führer
in us?”

Max’s half-hearted shrug suggested she favored the crazed airman theory.

I released a long breath. “Whatever the motive, somebody’s got to be investigating this. So why keep a lid on the crash results? Any scuttlebutt?”

Max shook her head. “I’m not even sure what the other guys on the investigating team found. We weren’t supposed to confer with one another, only with the officer in charge. When I reported my findings, I got orders not to disclose the information to anyone else.” She added, “All good reasons why you can’t tow target for those film people.”

Max pulled a wrench off the peg board where an assortment of tools had been hung. “There’s one thing that might play against Frankie if the investigation widens.” She tapped the wrench against the palm of her hand. “Frankie took an A-24 up late on Friday for a practice run. Had a passenger along.”

“Really? Who?”

Max shrugged and tapped the wrench again. “Don’t know. She didn’t log in a name.”

“But that’s against…”

Max had been watching me. Her attention shifted as she caught sight of a colleague approaching, airplane part in hand. “Let it be for now. You’ll only raise a flag you might not want to raise, talking about it. It’s likely the passenger was legit, part of the film crew. Frankie simply got distracted, forgot to sign him in. Whatever the case, so far no one’s brought it up.” She turned away. “Pucci, I gotta get back to work, you need to get back to Hollywood. Remember what I said, will ya? No target towing. Stay on the ground.”

***

Leaving Clover Field, I’d decided to stop at the Hollywood Hospital.

“How is she doing?” I whispered to the nurse bent over Frankie. She was applying Vaseline to Frankie’s lips.

“That’s better.” She pulled her fingers away and straightened up. “No change, I’m afraid.” Her voice sounded sad. She snapped the lid back on the Vaseline jar and wiped her fingers. Then with a practiced skill that made it look effortless, she straightened the bed covers around Frankie’s inert form, even managing to fluff the pillow which propped Frankie’s left arm without disturbing the angle of the cast.

When the bedding was pulled so tight you could bounce a dime on it, she stood with me near the end of the bed. We discussed the efforts to reach Frankie’s uncle, which had not yet panned out.

The nurse checked the needle in Frankie’s arm, adjusted the inverted intravenous bottle, then picked up her tray. “I’ll leave you two alone.” Her thick-soled shoes made a soft padding noise as she left.

I went to Frankie’s side. Smoothing the dark matted hair around her hairline, I prayed the swollen eyelids would flutter open or that the freshly lubricated cracked lips would move. It wasn’t long before the stony silence got to me. I began rubbing her arm lightly. “Frankie, I just came from March Field. Mad Max…you remember mad Max, don’t you? She doesn’t want me to do the towing sequence. Remember I told you about a cover up? Max found sugar in the fuel of the A-24 you were flying. She’s been ordered to keep quiet…”

I paused, conscious of the stillness of the room.

“Frankie, I saw the P-51. You must have seen it. Some piece of machinery, huh? Remember how sleek it looked?” I waited. The reaction I hoped for, a sign of awareness like I’d witnessed yesterday, did not come. I leaned over and whispered in her ear. “C’mon Frankie. You gotta get out of here. That P-51 would be keen to fly, don’t you think? They’ll let you have a go at it. Miss Cochran will fix it…”

With my mouth bent to her ear, my face toward the wall, my back to the door, it was impossible for me to hear anyone entering the room.

Suddenly, I sensed a presence behind me. I spun around, counting on seeing Dr. Farr, perhaps a nurse. Not Sam Lorenz, the screenwriter.

My hand flew to my chest. “Sam, my goodness. How long have you been here?”

“Just walked in,” Sam said in an undertone. With a nod to Frankie, he asked, “How is she?”

“She talked yesterday. Well, she tried anyway. I was just trying to get her to do it again.”

Sam smiled. No, it was more of a grimace. He did not look well. His normally golden skin looked pale, an odd shade of yellow; his eyes seemed glazed, his hair was completely disheveled. A few patches of whiskers—and even a few beads of sweat—were present here and there on his otherwise baby-smooth face.

My heart did a leap. Was he here to check into the hospital?

“Sam, what’s wrong? Why are you here?”

“Wha…Oh, sorry for my appearance.” He smoothed his hair, straightened slightly askew glasses. “I tried to track you down…” Sam glanced nervously at Frankie. “Should we be talking in here?”

I hated to leave Frankie’s side. “It’s okay. The nurse says she needs to hear voices.”

Sam’s eyes hardened. “But I’m not well. Let’s go in the hallway.”

I glanced at him sideways as we left Frankie’s room. What was wrong?

There was little traffic in the corridor. We leaned against the wall outside the doorway, facing one another.

“What happened?”

“I’ve got some kind of bug. Or, could just be exhaustion, not sure. I was working late last night…doing that rewrite for Brody. It came on suddenly. Wiped me out.”

Leery of catching what he had, I inched back a little and gave him a sympathetic look. “You heard about Brody?”

Sam nodded. “Didn’t help my punk feeling.”

Moved by his downcast expression, I reached out to squeeze his arm and was instantly infused with a current of warmth. At first I thought he might be so sick that his fever was radiating through his clothing. Then I realized, with a shock, that I was genuinely worried about him.

“What brought you here?” I asked.

The muscle under my hand flexed as Sam pulled loose from my hold. “I wanted to let you know that, being sick and all, I need to cancel our dinner plans for tonight.”

The round trip to March and all that had gone on during the day had been so consuming, I’d all but forgotten about the date. Still, I was let down. I’d built up a candlelight scenario where we would sip wine, talk, gaze across the table at one another. Romance aside, I’d been looking forward to discussing my new ideas for the WASP film, too. I wanted to get a sense of how a screenwriter would shape them into concepts Novara might go for. I also longed for the easy company of a friend I could trust.

“I understand,” I said, trying to keep the disappointment out of my voice.

I started to inquire why he had come all the way to the hospital to tell me—how he even knew I was here—but Frankie’s nurse approached us. She eyeballed Sam, perhaps wondering whether she should go for a gurney.

“I’m leaving,” Sam said for the nurse’s benefit. Then he spoke to me. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, then.” He read the surprise on my face. “You don’t know about the meeting?” I shook my head. “Novara’s scheduled one for 10:00 a.m. Wants to hear what you’ve come up with. He probably left word at your office. The Clark Gable project’s heating up, but he’s being pressured to get the WASP piece in the can first.” Sam rolled his eyes. “Should be an action-packed session.”

“You’ll be there won’t you?”

“You bet. Even if they have to wheel me in.”

Chapter Nine

I returned to Fort Roach shortly after five o’clock to find the lot pretty much deserted.

I had in mind putting in another hour of tinkering with the script, seeing where I might insert a scene with the P-51. In the typing pool area, all typewriters had been put to bed, dust covers in place. At my desk, I spied the mug I’d abandoned this morning. A cup of tea, with several spoons of sugar, would be just the sort of boost to get my gears cranking again.

Cup in hand, I headed for the lunch room. At the sink, I dumped out the mug’s contents.

Clink
. Something hard had been inside my mug. I stared into the flat-bottomed porcelain sink, watching brown dregs drain away from a small metal object. I picked it up. An earring.
A swastika earring!

It must have been put there by one of the typists. A joke? Comeuppance because I hadn’t joined in their loose speculation this morning about Brody’s death? Surely they hadn’t expected me to take their amateur crime-solving theories seriously. There hadn’t even been an official ruling yet that he’d been murdered. And unlike Gus they had no secret source.

But the earring. In not playing along had I hurt someone’s feelings? Was that it? They wanted me to know that I was now the enemy? The kettle whistled at the same moment I decided I needed some exercise to blow off the steam fast-building inside of me. I stuffed the disgusting thing in my pocket and left without my tea.

Outdoors, I took a deep breath and let the mild air soothe me. A slight breeze had kicked up and I lifted my face to greet it. In the west, the sky was deepening to slate-blue, the color reminiscent of Gunnar Rask’s eyes. Maybe a stroll to the editing building to see if he was in was the ticket. Maybe he knew the story behind his sister’s sudden departure this morning. At least one curiosity consuming my overloaded brain would be put to rest.

A short walk later, I was in front of one of the clapboard buildings Sam had pointed out on our walk through the lot the other day. I paused, trying to remember what he’d said the building was used for. A slightly ajar wooden screen door, caught in a gentle gust, flapped softly. Behind the screen, the solid closure had been left open—my invitation to go inside. Looking around, I saw no one to object.

Sam had said some of the old studio structures now served as barracks, but peering into a few of the rooms near the entry it appeared this building was full of unoccupied dressing rooms. I proceeded along a hall and came to a door with the sign
CAROLE LANDIS
on it. I knocked. No response. I gingerly cracked the door. A couch with a blue satin covering and pillows was positioned along the wall directly across from me. Beside it, a matching blue satin easy chair.

I ventured inside. Blue-flocked wallpaper lent a pleasant homey feel to the space. I sniffed the air. A trace of perfume. Fresh? The studio had not produced a commercial film in over two years. I took another whiff. The scent was musky, heavier than what a woman would wear. Men’s cologne, more likely.

I sat on the bench at the vanity table. As I stared in the makeup mirror, my mind conjured up the image of Miss Landis staring in
Topper Returns
, the Roach comedy-mystery picture I’d seen not long ago. In the movie, the beautiful blonde star played the best friend of a gal who got murdered while the two were staying in a creepy mansion. I shivered thinking of the mysterious hooded assailant intending to murder Miss Landis’ character but mistakenly killing her friend. Morbid was not the point of this sort of picture, and seconds later, the girl’s ghost arose from her body and from there on it was nonstop slapstick as Mr. and Mrs. Topper tried to rescue Landis’ character from a similar fate. Just the sort of frothy entertainment I liked for escape.

And escapism was what I needed. I ruffled my short locks and headed back outdoors, on a beeline for the Packard. Time to go home.

***

I rolled the general’s automobile into my usual spot in the courtyard in front of the Dunns’ mansion. I heard the fountain’s delicate trickle echoing softly through the quiet of the night, peaceful accompaniment for my stroll to the back entrance. Along the portico, I paused beside the climbing jasmine vines, drawing in deep whiffs of the heavenly scent. Before long, a wistful yearning for my lost date with Sam returned.

All at once, my insecurities skyrocketed like a widget walloped up a Strength-O-Meter scale by Paul Bunyan. I was taken with Sam, but how did he feel about me? He’d come to the hospital to break our date, but he hadn’t asked for a rain check.

I shook my head. What selfish, off-the-wall thoughts.
He didn’t feel good
. He wanted to go home, be alone. Be glad he cared enough to tell you in person.

As I reached the side door, my outlook brightened. Maybe it wasn’t too late to have supper with Ilka. I’d nixed my intended visit to Gunnar’s editing studio, but hadn’t she said this morning that he was joining her for dinner?

“Anyone home?” I called, passing through the brightly lit empty kitchen.

I stepped into the corridor of the main part of the house. Lights had been left on everywhere, and the house was so still that, in the distance, I heard the cawing of D.B.’s cockatoo in the atrium.

I returned to the kitchen. A piece of paper was propped against a bowl on the work table in the middle of the room. It had slipped to one side and I’d missed seeing it when I arrived.

Well, that explained the empty house. But not the lights.

I went in search of the promised food. From a tray of pre-made sandwiches, I selected a cheese and lettuce on white bread, and poured a glass of milk. Plate in one hand, glass in the other, I started down the corridor toward the living room, my heels clicking briskly on the tile floor.

Suddenly the house was plunged into darkness. I froze. Stopped breathing, listening for any telltale noise. Hearing only my pulse beating loudly in my ears, I edged slowly in the direction of the nearest wall.
Get a grip
,
Pucci
, I whispered into the black void.
You’re a pilot, trained to react calmly in a flying emergency
.
Think. Stay cool.

My shoulder, at last, met with smooth plaster. Pressed flush to the wall, I slid to the floor, anxious to rid myself of the glass and plate before I dropped them. The dishes rattled loudly as they slipped from my grasp to the tile.

Flashing into mind came Carole Landis, her friend, and the hooded assailant in the creepy mansion, the images setting me further on edge. Every muscle rigid, I waited in the dark silent void, anticipating the worst: the sound of heavy footsteps; the sudden grip of a hand on my arm.

I took a few deep breaths, forcing my muscles to relax.

Was that a shuffling noise on the other side the wall? I put my ear to cool plaster. Then I pulled away, listening in the direction of the darkened corridor instead. The house was completely still, not even a peep from the parrot down the hall.

As quickly as the lights had gone out, they came back on. I blinked, then got up, willing my vision to adjust, uncertain whether the movement I detected near the far end of the hall was real. The flap of a cape? An apparition?

I turned and started back toward the living room.

“Pucci! Wait!” a voice behind me shouted.

It was Gunnar. Where had he come from? I noticed he was carrying a flashlight.

Gunnar guided me into the living room, explaining he’d been pulling up when the lights went out. He kept a flashlight in his automobile. He’d taken it with him to check the fuse box. “A few fuses were loose. I tightened them.”

By the time we reached the sofa my shock had turned to embarrassment.

“Mother always said I’d regret my addiction to horror movies,” I said, breezily. Regrettably, the laugh I tagged on had an unnatural ring.

Seated next to me on the sofa, Gunnar smiled. “Well, you’re no lily-livered lightweight, I know that. Not with what it takes to make the grade as ferry pilot.”

The compliment was genuine, yet it made me feel uneasy. Praise generally did. I started to look away.

“You were singled out from a thousand-plus women for special assignment in Hollywood. That says a lot, too,” he added. “Besides, I’m the one who should be apologizing. Our first meeting at the rush theater…All that hooey about comparing myself to a Stuka pilot.” He smoothed his thick sandy hair and chuckled. “I was trying to make light of my hearing problem, but well…” Gunnar pulled his face into an exaggerated grimace. “You must have pegged me as a real palooka.”

He’d gotten that right. I started to make a flip retort, but caught myself. I worked at a job where the accolades were few and far between, and I tended to be hard on myself besides. The pat on the back was a nice treat. And I suspected that in calling attention to his foible he’d wanted to make me feel better about mine. That was special, wasn’t it?

Bit by bit, because of Gunnar, my built-in bias against handsome men was faltering.

“You’re no palooka,” I said. Our eyes met and I felt momentarily hypnotized by his gaze. I cleared my throat. “And thanks for coming to the rescue. So you didn’t see anything—
anyone
—when you entered the house? Hear anything?” Blood rushed to my cheeks. Gunnar had a hearing problem.

He shook his head and I rushed to another topic on my mind. “Where did D.B. and Della go?”

Gunnar cocked his eyebrow. “Didn’t they leave a note? I thought Ilka said they had.”

I nodded. “But it doesn’t explain anything.”

“They never leave a detailed explanation. They’re used to coming and going as they please.”

All at once a sensation came upon me that I was on to something. “But what kind of fundraising work would require them to leave in such a rush?”

He shrugged. “They don’t fill me in on everything they’re asked to do.”

“You seemed part of their scheming last night.”

Gunnar lifted an eyebrow. “Scheming?” Then he smiled. “What kind of mysterious work do you think a philanthropic couple and a war-injured film editor could be up to?”

“Intelligence,” I replied without missing a beat.

Gunnar stared at me, stone-faced. The telephone rang in the hallway just outside the living room. His gaze remained locked on mine. His eyes began twinkling, but he didn’t bother explaining what was so amusing. The phone continued its incessant ringing. He got up to answer it, returning almost instantly.

“I have to go,” he said, his voice urgent, “but before I do, I need to fill you in on a few things.”

I sat up straight. “Yes? What?”

“We know about your special training, about your work for the FBI on the Detroit case.”

The tiny hairs at the back of my neck prickled. There could be only one reason for Rask to have that sort of information. “I’m right then. G-2?” G-2 was military intelligence.

His nod was barely perceptible. “And what I’m about to tell you goes no further than these walls.”

“I promise.”

He continued. “No doubt you’ve heard the talk going around about Brody’s death.”

“That he was murdered?”

The flashlight thwacked softly as he bounced it against the palm of his hand. “It’s being treated as a suspicious death. We won’t know for sure until we have the autopsy and toxicology report, but yes, murder is a near certainty. He was being blackmailed and I’m willing to bet the blackmailer is also our killer.”

“Blackmail. Really? Why? Over what? How do you know?”

“Whoa. It’s all I can tell you for now. We’re on the case and have already set a trap.”

“And you need my help? What’s my role?”

Merriment flickered in his blue-gray eyes, then he became serious again. “I’ve put in a request. I’ll brief you further once you’re approved. Meanwhile, keep your eyes and ears open. Let me know about anything suspicious.”

A tall order given I didn’t know what I should be looking out for. But I agreed.

“You said
we
know about your training. Are Della and D.B. in on the investigation?”

Smiling, Gunnar leaned to whisper in my ear, “That’s it for now.”

I snapped away and stared.

He was still smiling. “I’ll let myself in later. Meantime, take care of yourself, okay?” He handed me the flashlight. “And keep this close.”

***

I went to my room and locked the door. My satin pajamas were missing. I retrieved my B-4 bag from under the bed. No p.j.s, but there was Gran Skjold’s .38. I loaded it, placed it under my pillow, and crawled into bed. In the buff.

***

Early the next morning, Ilka stood beneath an overhead lamp in the center of the kitchen, twirling a rolling pin back and forth over a flattened piece of dough that was getting wider and rounder and thinner. The work table’s surface was coated with flour and there were dollops of white on the counter spaces surrounding her. Her long platinum hair was pulled into an upsweep, exposing her forehead and a powdery blotch marring it. The apron covering the front of her peasant blouse and dark skirt appeared to have suffered the least damage. But then it was white.

Ilka’s head swayed from side to side and her arms kept rhythm as she cheerily hummed…
drifting along with the tumbling tumbleweeds
…accompanying the radio on the counter behind her. Beside the radio, the lamp’s yellow glow was reflected in the large window above the sink. Outdoors, the sun was not yet up.

The music ended abruptly. A moment of silence preceded the announcements that we’d been listening to the
Sons of the Pioneers
and that we should stay tuned for
Don McNeill’s Breakfast Club
. As she sensed my presence Ilka’s mouth stretched into a broad dazzling smile.

“Pucci,
édesem
,” she said, putting down the rolling pin and brushing herself off. “You are up early.” She wiped her forehead with the sleeve of her blouse. “Anything the matter?”