Hollywood Buzz (15 page)

I needn’t have worried.

“It’s not exactly clear when I’ll be able to leave,” she said, winding up the report from Washington at last. “The general has already left, but he’s asked me to stay on to continue trying to build more support.” There was another crackling of paper. “Wait a minute. What’s this? Note says to call a Lieutenant Rask in Hollywood. Know anything about this, Lewis?”

I swallowed. My armpits were wet with perspiration. “Ahhh, Rask? He’s Mrs. Dunn’s brother. Staying at the house. Maybe you ought to ring him back. Oh, and while you’re at it…a call to Major Beacock or whoever else is involved in decisions of that level might help me win approval to fly the Mustang.”

“Hmm. Got a meeting coming up, but I’ll see what I can do later today. I’m calling Rask now.”

***

Before leaving Fort Roach for the day, I took a call from Major Beacock. He advised me that the P-51 Mustang would be available for filming purposes on Saturday, day after next. If the euphoria I got from ferry piloting could be compared to the pleasure of an extended merry-go-round ride, then flying the P-51 should be the brass ring.

***

A stop at the hospital was the last thing on my list before heading home for a well-deserved soak in the tub. Then dinner with Sam.

A lively half hour of soliloquy on my day did not induce so much as a blink from Frankie. Her nurse entered as I was about to go and we chatted about Frankie’s condition. The signs of life at my first visit had not reappeared, but she mentioned how nice she thought it was that Miss Cochran and her husband were taking care of Frankie’s mounting medical bills.

The nurse’s remark brought back my conversation with Miss C. So that’s what she’d meant about having to do some “finagling” with regard to Frankie’s hospital expenses. I was stunned at her generosity. Who would be covering the cost of Frankie’s hospital stay if not for Miss C? And,
why
should she have to be doing it in the first place?

The ugly reminder of the second-class status of the WASP made me appreciate, more than ever, the importance of Miss C’s going to the mat for us—this time by accompanying the general to Washington, D.C., to help get us the benefits and stature militarization would provide.

The nurse, after chewing her lip and wringing her hands, added something else. Frankie had had a visitor yesterday evening after I’d left. He left in such a rush, he almost bowled over the nurse who’d come upon him in Frankie’s room.

Chapter Eleven

In the gathering darkness, I wondered about Frankie’s mysterious visitor as I snaked the Packard up Benedict Canyon Drive, headed for home. Why had he been there?

The nurse’s description—dark, medium height, quick on his feet—was not much to go on. No one else in the nursing crew had noticed him. A “No Visitors” sign was posted on the room’s door, and the nurse assumed he feared a reprimand for ignoring the order. Perhaps a boyfriend. But if it was someone who cared about Frankie, why the rush to leave? When I’d paid my first visit to the hospital, the nurse had said both a man and a woman had called to ask about Frankie’s condition but hadn’t left their names. Might the visitor have been the male caller? Or, it had happened so fast, might the “he” have actually been a “she”?

The Packard’s engine made a loud rumbling as I rounded the turn off the main road, downshifting to make the steep charge up the Dunns’ drive. My gaze climbed the angled walls from the atrium on the main level, to the Dunns’ bedroom on the second floor, past the small, narrow windows of the private study just above, stopping at the railed cupola on top. I hadn’t yet had the opportunity to take in the view from up there, but I’d seen the spiral staircase that led to the lookout point the other evening when I’d met with Della. Recalling her invitation to borrow from her closet, I smiled. A raid was definitely in order for tonight’s date with Sam.

Oddly, I remained attracted to Sam in spite of his upstaging me during our meeting with Novara. Or was it
because
of what had gone on? His handling of Novara had been smooth. And when it came down to it, my objective—the WASP film’s integrity—was dependent on my ability to outmaneuver Novara. In sticking close to Sam, I was gathering useful tips. Then there was our writing assignment. I could do a journeyman’s job but Sam had the wherewithal to create—how had Miss C put it?—a script Novara wouldn’t be able to resist.

Work aside, I was looking forward to an intimate evening with a thoughtful, sensitive man. A bit of an odd fish, perhaps, but the sort of catch I was beginning to find attractive. Just imagining the two of us at a candlelit table, engaged in quiet conversation, his intelligent, caring eyes gazing into mine, made me tingly with excitement.

Impulsive Jupiter Heart line…
a tiny voice sing-songed deep inside my brain.

Circling the Packard round the courtyard, I waved to the Mexican gardener, once again dressed all in white. The light clothing was a striking contrast against the charcoal of the early dusk, typical of November. I parked, then watched while he packed the last of his gear into his dilapidated truck. What would Miss C think if she knew I was having romantic thoughts about a colleague? That I was about to set aside my inhibitions? I wondered if she even remembered what it was like to date.

Though powerful and independent as individuals, she and her husband Floyd Odlum found fulfillment through the talents of each other. Mr. Odlum, almost twenty years Miss C’s senior, was an investment genius and a millionaire. He had also been stricken with crippling arthritis, and it was said he lived his adventures through his wife. For Miss C, her husband provided the resources she needed for her pursuits. Some even claimed it was Mr. Odlum’s vast pool of money, experience, and contacts that had catapulted his wife to Director of Women Pilots. Not that Miss C didn’t have abilities and a will of her own. She’d pulled herself up from poverty-stricken beginnings as a child worker in the cotton mills on Tobacco Road, to learning a trade as a beautician—starting as live-in help for the beauty shop’s owner—to establishing her own highly successful cosmetics company. No small feat at twenty-three, my age, and in the Depression era. It was her husband-to-be Odlum who, seated next to her at a dinner party, casually commented that competition for any kind of business was so keen because of the Depression that she would almost need wings to cover territory fast enough to hold her own. In 1932, she earned her pilot’s license. The beauty operator ceased to exist and an aviator was born. An aviator and also a savvy business woman.

I’d heard about the climb in a talk Miss C gave on goal achievement. Rather than regret her past, she believed the experiences had taught her independence and how to survive on her own. The lessons learned in weathering the difficulties of her youth had become the backbone of her ability and desire to accomplish great things as an adult, she’d said.

The speech had inspired me in a broader sense than flying only. It reinforced my belief that, with a positive attitude and determination, almost anything was possible. It also gave me a new perspective toward marriage. Miss C had returned, again and again, to how a woman’s strength comes from having her own thoughts, opinions, and life. Marriage for her hadn’t been an escape. She had worked hard to establish a successful career beforehand. And when she married, it was to someone who would treat her as an equal; who was committed to the give and take of a true partnership. She’d kept her own name. It reminded her of where she’d come from, she said.

After her presentation that day, I began thinking I would prove my worth through my work as well. That getting married after establishing my career was the right path for me. All I need now, I thought, exiting the Packard and crossing the courtyard, was to get hired as a commercial pilot after the war, and to find a man who could recognize that my needs, desires, and identity were as important as his. I sighed. No small order.

I left the arched portico still savoring the sweet smell of jasmine as I started for the side door.
A Neptunian life line…destined for a life somehow removed from the mainstream
. If I were to put faith in Ilka’s palm reading projections, maybe my post-war dreams weren’t out of reach.

I approached the kitchen door.
Passionate nature…rush into romance
…
blind to faults of those you love
. Ilka’s heart line findings charged my brain until I collided with Gunnar Rask, who was making a hurried exit. Momentarily discombobulated, we stared blankly at one another, then burst into laughter.

Gunnar’s hair was damp and he had the clean soapy smell of a recent shower. In the dim beam of an exterior lamp, I also observed his freshly pressed uniform and the worn leather briefcase in his hand. He was heading back to Fort Roach, I gathered.

“Sorry, I was on another planet.”

“No, I’m sorry.” Gunnar smoothed his damp sandy hair. “I’m needed back at the studio. Ah, and no one’s home. But I left the lights on. And there’s a note from Ilka. Says she’ll be back around seven or so.”

I hadn’t seen Gunnar since the previous night, just after the power outage. I smiled at his look of concern. “Don’t worry about my being alone. I’m going out. Got a date.”

“A date? Who with?” Gunnar’s tone sounded curiously strained.

“Sam Lorenz. We’re having dinner. Novara has agreed to make some changes to our WASP film. He wants us to sketch the ideas out in more detail. On paper.”

“Your ideas?”

I nodded. “Yeah. But it took Sam to sell them.”

I briefly explained what had happened.

“Too bad he stole your thunder. Watch yourself. Around here, people think nothing of stealing ideas from one another.” Under his breath, almost as if he were talking to himself, he added, “Other things, too.”

Blackmail.
Of course, Rask’s mind was on Brody and his case. “The trap. Do you have the blackmailer?”

Gunnar squinted into the fading shadowy light. “There was a foul-up. But we’ll get them.”

“Foul-up? Them?”

Gunnar cocked an eyebrow, said nothing.

“But you know why Brody was being blackmailed. And what the blackmailer had on him.” He looked at me. I’d guessed right. My eyes met his squarely. “You asked me to keep my eyes and ears open. I could more effectively carry out my assignment—trivial as it is so far—if I knew what you know.” He canted his head. “Miss Cochran said she was going to call you. There’s probably a message at your office…”

“I spoke with her. Minutes ago, in fact. She called here.” He nodded toward the main part of the house. “Yes—” He read my expectant look. “She’s agreed to lend you out. Though I hear you’re on a high priority case already.”

“She told you?”

“Not in so many words.” A little smile quirked the corners of his mouth. “Said you’d fill me in.” He shifted the briefcase to his other hand, thought a moment. “Brody was involved in an obsessive affair. He is…he
was,
married.”

I nodded, recalling the family photo in his office. “And the blackmailer had evidence. What was he willing to trade it for?”

Gunnar shook his head. “Sorry. No need to know.”

“What? It’s key information,” I said indignantly. “I need it if I’m going to do my job. Who am I going to tell?”

“Pucci, I need one final brass hat to sign off before you’re cleared. I’ll tell you this much, but it’s all you’re going to get, understood?” He waited until I nodded my agreement. “Espionage is involved.”

My skin tingled, head to foot.

“Your turn. Given how little you’ve had to go on, but given who you are—” His eyes danced merrily. “What did you manage to pick up?”

I shared Gus’ gossip about Chalmers. But Chalmers, according to Rask, was in the clear. He’d simply been brought in for questioning, that was all. Then I reported my observation of Novara’s shoes.

“Might be contraband,” I suggested. “Purchased on the black market.” My conjecturing ballooned. “He could be selling things on the black market as well.”

Gunnar smiled. “More likely wishful thinking on your part. But I’ll follow up. If you want, stop by my shop tomorrow. I’m wrapping up the firefighting sequence. You can check what we did with the crash footage.”

“Thanks. I’d like that.” He glanced at his watch and started to back away. An itch in my brain like a mosquito bite demanded to be scratched. “Wait. There was an incident on a high security shoot the other day.” I described the prank with the projectile containing the propaganda poster. “Later, in Brody’s office, I heard of more vandalism—a small fire—on the same set. Did you hear about it?”

Gunnar knew about the incidents. He’d been called in by Brody to investigate. I listened transfixed while he confided his suspicions. It was not the work of pranksters, but the subversive attempts by enemy operatives trying to work on Brody’s fears.

“They wanted him to know they meant business. Jinxing the set, slowing production of a film meant to teach airmen how to resist Nazi interrogation, was the perfect medium. But security has been tightened. The film is back on track.” His eyes met mine squarely. “Pucci, word of this must not get out. The possibility of clandestine enemy agents operating in Hollywood would set nerves on edge, create a nervous buzz about other attacks to come. It’s just the sort of reaction they want. We’re not going to give them the satisfaction.”

“Of course, but—”

Gunnar checked his watch and began a backwards exit. “That’s all I can tell you for now.” He smiled. “The reports were not exaggerated. Your perceptions are excellent.” He paused. “Ilka’s been acting a little strange lately, have you noticed?”

I stared blankly for a moment, perplexed. “Nooo. She’s auditioning for a part. She’s concerned about Bela Lugosi. He’s got sciatica. She’s trying to cure him. Herbs, potions. Sounds strange, I know, but your sister is a believer. Ilka’s supposedly been trained in the stuff. Er, the art. Method…”

Gunnar nodded slowly, as though not quite convinced that I knew what I was talking about.

He looked at me. “Watch your back around her.” And left.

***

I stood in the master suite doorway, uneasy about entering the room in Della’s absence. Privacy was something I valued deeply. Yet here I was, about to invade her personal domain.

I took a breath. Della had
invited
me to raid her closet.

The lush white carpeting felt spongy as I padded past the huge velvet-draped bed atop the dais, en route to the walk-in closet. Out the corner of my eye, I glimpsed the wrought-iron staircase. The chance to experience the view from the cupola proved irresistible.

I detoured over to the stairway and mounted it. At the top, I flicked a switch, revealing a hexagonal study with exactly the quaint ambiance I would have expected. A roll-top desk and an overstuffed club chair with a matching ottoman, soft lighting and book-lined walls—the cozy space even had windows, but they were narrow and set high in the wall. Too high to look out.

A wooden ladder led to a trap door in the ceiling. I scaled the rungs carefully. The door pushed open with ease and I climbed outside.

Being out under the tile-roofed cupola was like standing in an open-air bandstand except for the view. Lights glittered everywhere in the distance. They twinkled from homes all along the surrounding hillsides. They sparkled amidst the city sprawl of Beverly Hills and Hollywood below. On the rise directly opposite where I stood, a pocket of lights was scattered fan-fashion; another spilled like diamonds poured from a dark velvet pouch, invisible in the black of the night.

The abundance of lights was surprising, given that war precautions had probably cut the original numbers in half.
Hold it
, I told the irksome worrywart side of me. Why fret about how much glitter was right for the Hollywood hills? Tonight was my night on the town. A too-rare time for amusement, perhaps even a little pleasure. I smiled. Besides, how could “Tinsel Town” exist without lights?

A soft, cool breeze tingled my skin and gently ruffled my hair. The sensations were delightful and I was tempted to linger at the railing. But my schedule was tight. I had only enough time to select an outfit and take a quick bath before I had to leave for the restaurant to meet Sam.

One hand clutched a ladder rung and the other balanced the hatch door as I retreated down the ladder, one cautious step at a time. Almost predictably, my foot slipped. Instinctively, the hand steadying the hatch door let go to grip the ladder. The door closed with a loud thunk that rattled my nerves and scattered, like a snowstorm, the papers from the desk below.

If only the roll-top had been pulled shut such a thing wouldn’t have happened, I groused, scurrying down to retrieve the documents littering the floor. I rifled the pages, sorting and scanning for content. When I’d met Della, I’d dismissed the notion of her holding down a job. Reordering the piles, I began to realize the enormity of organizing charity functions and my perspective changed.