Chapter 11 Ingrid #3
are Communists, but surely not her. It would be just like Ada to concede to hosting their gatherings even without participating
in political matters. If so, Ingrid will caution her against such reckless decisions. Once she reveals the truth of the society
to Crenshaw, and if she can encourage Ada to clarify her views through an exclusive, neither he nor his HUAC contacts will
doubt her investigation’s success.
“A party?” She lifts a brow. “Sounds rather exclusive. Celebrities only.”
“Exceptions can be made for those related to the hostess. And don’t worry about the press. It’s a private event, and my friends
will be discreet.”
A party among Hollywood’s elite. This is the organization she is here to understand, and the prospect of mingling with so many from the entertainment industry has left her heart pounding. While Ada waits, Ingrid pretends to contemplate. At last she sighs.
“Very well, cousin,” she teases. “I’ll come.”
Her sister isn’t the only one who can act a little.
Once Ada drops Ingrid off at the Biltmore, Ingrid refrains from reaching for a cigarette. She wants nothing to calm her, nothing
to quell the reprimands or rebukes, because she’ll be damned if she refrains from telling Archie Stribling exactly what’s
on her mind.
Instead she lets every lingering concern, frustration, and worry mingle when she reaches her floor, and every step propels
her to the end of the hall, where she slams a fist against the door.
When it opens, Archie stands in a robe, his dark hair wet and mussed while the smell of chlorine hits Ingrid’s nostrils, indicating
he’s come from the hotel pool. Her colleague doesn’t look surprised to see her, chuckles when she pushes past him, lifts a
brow as if prompting her to speak and entertain him further. All of which makes her long for something to throw at him.
“Did you threaten Ada Worthington-Fox at the film event last night?” she demands.
“Threaten? I prefer the term ‘caution.’”
Interfering with her investigation. Her sister. Yet revealing the entire truth would not alter the way he’s regarding her,
indifferent to her frustration, her fury. As if both she and her work are of less importance.
“Leave Ada to me. Why were you looking into her work history?”
“I went to Lucey’s Restaurant across from RKO and Paramount Studios, met a casting director, claimed to be an aspiring actor, and got him talking about Sternberg—confirmed Red, according to the casting director and the Reporter exposé, if you missed it.
Then he went on about all the directors he’d worked with or actors he’d auditioned or wanted for
parts, her included.” Archie picks up a bottle of whiskey and pours two glasses. When she doesn’t accept hers, he swallows
both, then clears his throat. “Last night, outside the event, I saw the actress, didn’t see you to give you the tip, and thought
I’d help you.”
“If I need your help, I will ask for it.” Alcohol might not be such a bad idea after all. Ingrid snatches a new glass, pours
her own serving of whiskey, adds ice, and drinks, letting it burn her throat the way the next question burns her tongue. “What
did she tell you?”
“Nothing specific. Which means she’s hiding something.”
Indeed she is, far more than Archie knows.
“A woman hiding something from a man she doesn’t know who decided to caution her?” Ingrid scoffs. “I can’t imagine why she wasn’t willing to talk to you.”
“Archie, you bloody menace,” he replies, pitching his voice up and adopting her accent.
Outright mockery? She would toss the rest of her drink at him if she didn’t want it for herself. Instead she presses both
palms against the glass, focusing on the cold rather than the intensity of the flames heating her neck. In the workplace,
some men ignore her; some are kind to her; most are indifferent. Archie clings to her like a rash—always irritating, occasionally
even painful.
Without an audience to appreciate the imitation, he sits on the bed, frowning. “Ease up, Britain, can’t you take a joke? Holland,” he corrects quickly to avoid what she’s bound to say next. “Despite what you think, my reasons for talking to Ada had nothing
to do with making you mad. She’s a nice, talented girl, and if she’s not already a Commie, I’d hate to see her ruin her career.
Someone needed to tell her to be careful.”
“That’s my assignment, not yours.”
“Just trying to be a good friend to you, Ingrid. And you can be a good friend to me by sending her to my room every once in a while, now that you two are going to be spending time together.” A sly grin brings a salacious spark to his eyes. “One favor in exchange for another.”
How easily and how often women are relegated to playthings, to bartering chips, to favors. If they were in the office, Ingrid
would bury her fingernails into her palms to keep from retorting. Here, thousands of miles away, when the little whisper reminds
her to be prudent, she tells it to shut up.
“Subject her to you? No woman deserves such an unfortunate fate.” When he places a hand over his heart, as if wounded, Ingrid
finishes her drink and crosses to meet him. Enough of his antics, his flippancy, his interference. “This job is everything
I’ve worked toward for the last six years, everything you’ve been permitted to do from the moment you started. We are here
to work, not for you to treat every woman like a conquest. Certainly not the one who is my responsibility.” For once he holds
his tongue as she shoves her empty whiskey glass into his palm. “Stay away from Ada.”
His look of genuine surprise would be laughable if not for the anger and whiskey and, at last, candidness bolstering each
step as she leaves him sitting there and returns to her quarters. When she’s back in the office, maybe she won’t refrain from
speaking plainly anymore. Prudence be damned.