Chapter 27
Chapter 27
The blue Ford trailed her again when Lena went to meet Hedda Hopper for lunch, though whoever was in it did not follow her inside. Even the familiar gloss of Musso it had a Hollywood glamour that she associated with success, and the movie stars and writers who came here to be served by a discreet and efficient waitstaff only emphasized it. She took in the white tablecloths, the red leather booths, the mahogany bar and the gentle green-and-cream hunting-scene-illustrated wallpaper in the archways and between the wooden beams. Glass and mirrors and elegant light and the hum of talk.
She scanned the tables; Hedda hadn’t arrived yet, which gave Lena time to compose herself as the ma?tre d’ led her to a table. She ordered a martini—just one, she told herself. She wanted to remain in control, but one drink would calm her, and she was glad she had time for a few sips before she spotted Hedda Hopper’s hat bobbing at the entrance. Black today, with a band of red roses. It was a somber choice for Hedda. Lena, for whom dress meant much more than mere clothing, wondered if she should read anything into that, or if Hedda had simply chosen it to match her outfit.
She waved to catch the columnist’s attention, and Hedda waved a gloved hand back and started over. She wore pearls, a strand of large ones and a multistrand of tiny ones looped thickly around her neck. The light glimmered off her large conch-shell earrings and a brooch with a red stone at the knot of the white scarf at her throat. She smiled as she approached the table, glanced at Lena’s martini—disapprovingly? Otherwise? In any case she noted it and did not order one for herself but said “Coffee please” before she settled herself in the booth across from Lena with an alert officiousness that filled Lena with dread all over again.
“So nice to see you, Hedda,” Lena said smoothly, taking a bigger sip of the martini. “How glad I am that you could come to lunch on such short notice.”
“Well, you’re all the talk this morning.”
Lena smiled thinly and indicated the menu. “It’s my treat.”
A waiter brought Hedda’s coffee. The menu lay untouched before her, but she said, “I’ll have the lobster salad.”
“The shrimp louie,” Lena ordered.
When the waiter moved away, Hedda said, “I understand congratulations are in order. Engaged! How lovely. Of course, I had to learn that from Louella ...”
“Only because of her gala. I’d been so busy, you understand, but it was thoughtless of me, Hedda, and I do apologize.”
Hedda sipped her coffee, but her mouth was tight when she put the cup down. “I thought we were friends.”
“We were—we are. It isn’t Louella I’ve invited to lunch today.”
“Hmmm. Well, let’s see it.” A quick gesture. “Show me the rock.”
Lena pulled off her glove to show off her ring.
Hedda eyed it with the steady appraisal of someone who knew the value of jewelry. “That cost him a pretty penny. I’d guess maybe the entire amount of that screenplay you helped him sell to Lux.”
“It sold on its own merit,” Lena corrected gently, trying to keep the frustration from her voice. “It’s a wonderful script.”
Hedda gave her a whatever-you-say look and sat back. “I understand it’s been given a new title.”
“The Doom of Medusa.”
Hedda raised a brow. “Not horror?”
Lena shook her head. “Oh no. It’s very Raisin in the Sun . With Ruby Dennison, who of course is so charming. The film is ...” What? Once, she would have said it was unlike anything else. A film about women’s relationships and triumph. Now it was such a mess that she wasn’t sure what to say. Fortunately, she didn’t have to think of anything, because Hedda wasn’t interested in the story of The Doom of Medusa .
“What about all the trouble I’m hearing about on the set?”
“I can’t imagine what you’re talking about.”
“Nothing good ever came of getting ahead of oneself or taking advantage. People ought to be grateful when they’ve been given a shot. That’s the problem in this town. Too little gratitude.”
Lena frowned, uncertain who Hedda was referring to. Paul? Or Lena herself? She was saved from having to ask by the arrival of their lunch and the waiter’s suggestion of another martini. It took all Lena’s willpower to decline. She focused on the shrimp louie, though she wasn’t very hungry in the sharp focus of Hedda’s gaze.
“Especially now,” Hedda went on, picking up her fork, “when the threat is everywhere.”
Lena stiffened. “What threat is that?”
“Why, the Reds, of course. Anyone might take a lack of gratitude as un-American.”
Lena didn’t mistake the implication in the gossip columnist’s voice—or that it was about Paul. “There’s no conflict on the set, or lack of gratitude, for that matter. Who’s been telling you that?”
“What does your fiancé think about this Walter Maynard business?” Hedda parried.
Lena wondered if Hedda Hopper ever lowered her voice in any situation. The restaurant was full, talk and the clink of glass and silverware a quiet, steady hum. The only saving grace was that everyone in Musso Lena called herself back to the subject at hand, but when she said, “I had nothing to do with Walter Maynard’s death,” the words didn’t feel forceful, she was still thinking about Hedda’s advice, about leaving Lux. “And neither did Paul.”
“Of course you didn’t.” Hedda’s half smile wasn’t reassuring. “Thank you for lunch. I enjoyed it.”
She wobbled off, the sound of her heels clipping through the smooth murmur of talk, the roses teetering perilously, seeming disembodied against the black of her hat. Lena watched her go and sat there drinking her martini, ignoring the shrimp louie, mostly untouched before her, while Hedda’s insinuations and revelations spun in her head. The woman had discovered Elsie Maynard. She had heard about conflicts on the set of Medusa . Lena didn’t think she’d put Hedda off that scent, either, and what would happen if Hedda wrote about it? Runyon was already suspicious about Paul, and Hedda’s words about ingratitude being un-American ... and there was Lena’s past, and the LAPD investigation and that note ...
Lena finished the rest of her martini. She wanted to call Harvey and Charlie for their advice, but dared not. She had no one she could confide in, no one she could trust with this. She was more on her own than she had ever been.
Shirley gave her an anxious look when Lena returned. “How did it go?”
“You know Hedda,” Lena said with a thin smile. “She’ll solve the murder before the LAPD does.”
“ Temple Street Pickup is on your desk.”
It was a relief to enter the quiet of her office, to let her mind change directions. The thumbnail she’d been working on yesterday hung on the easel half-done, waiting for color. A research book on late nineteenth century dress lay open on the low table near the couch. Fabric swatches and tear-outs from magazines were everywhere—she found the mess calming despite its chaos. This was who she was. She could forget about everything here.
Lena put down her purse and drew off her gloves. She saw the next screenplay in her queue where Shirley said she’d put it. Another spy movie. She put the screenplay aside. Beneath it was an envelope.
Lena Taylor, Costumer to the Stars.
She froze. What was this doing here? She thought she’d put it away. Unless ... she pulled open her desk drawer and found the original letter still there.
“Shirley,” she called. “Who left this letter on my desk?”
“What letter?” Shirley called back. “The mail isn’t here yet.”
Lena felt sick. So this was a third letter. A new one. Like the others, it had no postmark, and no stamp, which meant ... which meant that someone had put it here on her desk. Someone had come into her office to place it here.
The hair on the back of her neck tickled. She had the strange feeling of being watched, a tightness in her chest. She turned the envelope over. It was sealed.
She wanted to run; instead she walked slowly and deliberately to the door. “Did anyone strange come into my office today?”
Shirley frowned, obviously perplexed by the question. “Strange how?”
“I don’t know. A messenger, or ... anyone?”
“Of course not.” Shirley looked offended. “You know I don’t let just anyone walk in.”
“Yes, but ...” Lena held out the envelope. “Do you know where this came from?”
Shirley came over to examine it. “Why, no. Where did you find it?”
“On my desk. Were you gone at some point?”
“I went to get my lunch, but I was only gone a few minutes, and I lock everything up.”
Lena went back into her office and shut the door behind her. How the envelope got here was a puzzle; when she opened it, the message was the same. Just the phone number. Such a benign thing, and yet, it raised a sense of menace, of portent, that Lena could not sweep away.
She looked at her telephone. How ridiculous this was. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was ... but she couldn’t think of any reason why anyone would leave a note like this if it were innocuous. A friend would include their name. A salesman would at least provide a hint of what they were selling—or would they? Maybe it was meant to raise her curiosity. Maybe it wasn’t meant to be threatening at all.
Maybe . . .
Lena picked up the receiver. She dialed the number. Her heart pounded as it rang. One ring, and then two, and then ...
“Beverly Hills Hotel. How may I help you?”
This she had not expected.
“Hello?” The female voice prodded, very polite.
“Um—” Lena could not think of what to say. “Um ... yes. Room 116 please?”
The phone rang. And rang. Lena tensed with each blistering brrrr , her fingers tightened on the receiver.
It picked up. There was a clicking sound. Something garbled. A voice? She couldn’t tell. More clicking, and a weird sound that fell in and out, like someone speaking underwater. Beneath it all she heard music. Jazz.
“Hello?” Lena said. “Hello?”
Only the strange click, and the music. Music Lena recognized, a song that made her catch her breath, that threw her so far back in time she lost her grasp on the present; she forgot where and who she was.
“Nature Boy.”
Lena slammed down the receiver.