Chapter 15 Ingrid
Ingrid
Everywhere Ingrid looks, someone is eating, drinking, laughing, dancing, swimming, even kissing. One couple is in the pool,
clothes and all, lips pressed together amid a smattering of cheers.
Too many drinks, by far.
For the best, really. With everyone so distracted, no one is paying attention to Ingrid, and she lost Ada a while ago. Thanks
to the house tour she requested, she knows exactly where to go.
Inside, the bedrooms are quiet. She slips into Gordon’s room first, then Ada’s, neither of which contains anything useful
for her investigation, so she proceeds into Ada’s office. Sowerby is napping on the chaise longue, although he rouses to greet
Ingrid. She scratches his chin affectionately. If anyone finds her, she can say she came to pay the little dog a visit. After
Sowerby curls up on the chaise again, Ingrid approaches Ada’s desk.
From her handbag, she produces a pack of cigarettes—which instead contains a Whittaker Micro 16, a new style of subminiature camera she picked up from a shop after Ada invited her to this event.
All night, it’s been easy to discreetly photograph the partygoers, since she fashioned holes into the cigarette packet so the camera can remain tucked inside, undetected.
Now that she’s alone, she extracts it from the packet, replaces the used film with a fresh cartridge, and photographs the room, then searches the desk.
Nothing there to prove or disprove Communist leanings for either Ada or her Star Society, which is a relief, yet also frustrating.
Ada said she is not a Communist, so of course Ingrid believes her, but Crenshaw and Stieber will need more proof than her sister’s word.
After a few more photographs of the desk materials, she moves on to Gordon’s office. Film and theater posters and pieces of
art decorate the walls. Once she locates client files, she photographs each one, lingering on Ada’s—again, nothing to prove
or disprove anything—then returns the items and notices a day planner. She flips through the entries until one catches her
eye: CPUSA. Communist Party of the United States of America.
Swallowing hard, she takes a picture of the entry, which includes a time for the meeting. A party meeting. If Ada’s agent
is a confirmed Communist, it will only reinforce Crenshaw and Stieber’s fears about Ada surrounding herself with Communist
influences. Her director and her agent are Communists; therefore Ada herself must share their views and assist them with her
front organization, they will assume. Unless Ingrid can prove otherwise before her allotted eight weeks are up.
Ingrid closes the planner, then eases open a desk drawer and is sifting through it when something seizes her arm—a grip, a
tight one, and she gasps, tensing while a man’s accusatory growl finds her ear.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Even as her frantic mind seeks an explanation, she knows that voice. Panic gives way to irritation, and she drives her elbow
into the man’s ribs.
“Let go of me.”
“God, that was fun.” Chuckling, Archie releases her and jerks his head toward the faint music and laughter beyond the slightly open door. “Hell of an event, isn’t it?”
How did he secure an invitation? Already, she feels it—the verge of unrestraint, that place she sometimes has no more control
over now than she did as a hotheaded girl, and she glares. “I told you to stay away from Ada.”
“Relax, I’m here for Sternberg, not her. Since his views are confirmed, I need to find out how involved he is with the party
and who his associates might be, so I needed her to get me in tonight.” Archie studies Ingrid. “You know, you two favor a
bit.”
“And you resemble a much less appealing Clark Gable, but you don’t hear me carrying on about it.” To her chagrin, he brightens—she
should have chosen someone less attractive than Clark Gable. It’s true, though, so hopefully he will accept a resemblance
between her and Ada and spare her from having to explain further.
Archie nods to the drawer he caught her searching. “Document evidence if you find any. And if you haven’t planted listening
devices—”
“I know how to do my job.” Then, drawing a breath, she puts away the tiny camera and speaks more evenly. “I’m doing everything
that needs to be done, and I’m taking my work seriously.”
“I never said you weren’t. I’m not the enemy, remember? Now find out if this is a Communist front, or Crenshaw and Stieber
will have your ass.”
Archie doffs his hat in farewell and slips out. Maybe he’s here for Sternberg, but having him this close to Ada leaves Ingrid
feeling as she did moments ago when he startled her, tense and afraid something is about to go terribly wrong.
After settling her nerves, she casts Archie from her mind.
She has been gone too long, and maybe no one has noticed, but if they have, she needs to mingle before she arouses suspicion.
Various conversations meld together as she rejoins the guests, then a voice reaches her ears—Gordon’s, she surmises.
She finds him in the living room with a few men and women, all holding cigars, cigarettes, and drinks.
“I’m telling you, it will get worse. I didn’t think so before, but now I do,” Gordon is insisting. “Those in the entertainment
industry are falling under primary suspicion. Everyone was talking about it at my last meeting.”
A Communist Party meeting, most likely. Thick clouds of smoke fill her lungs while Ingrid takes another discreet photo, then
steps closer.
“Mind if I join you? I can’t seem to find Ada.”
“That girl is impossible to keep up with at these events.” Gordon pats the seat cushion beside his. “Are you enjoying your
visit?”
“Well, Los Angeles is rather different from Kent.” The remark secures a laugh from the group, which is almost as pleasing
as having remembered the story Ada developed. Ingrid accepts a cigarette from the woman beside her and looks at the surrounding
faces. “I must say, I feel like I’m the only one not in show business. Does anyone here do anything else?”
“Of course. You’ll find waitresses, secretaries, bartenders, salespeople . . . It’s merely a coincidence that every single
one is trying to make it in show business at the same time,” the woman with the cigarettes says, followed by more laughter.
She seems a few years older than Ingrid, with short blond hair styled in soft, playful curls.
“Mark my words, Bev, you won’t be serving at Lucey’s much longer. Not after your television pilot airs,” Gordon says before
taking a puff of his cigar and looking to Ingrid. “Show business is all about who you know, what you want, and how far you’re
willing to go to get it.”
“Sounds awfully similar to politics.” Ingrid draws on the cigarette and releases a slow stream of smoke. Surely someone will
take the bait, will direct the conversation back to whatever they were talking about when she found them.
“Darling, so sorry for wandering off! Have you been enjoying yourself?”
At the sound of Ada’s cry, Ingrid bites her cheek. Just when she was nearly getting somewhere. She suppresses the desire to
shoo her sister away as Ada joins them.
“Care to properly introduce me to these friends of yours?” Ingrid asks.
“Right, of course, that was my fault,” Gordon says, tapping a finger against his temple. “Allow me. Everyone, this is Ada’s
cousin, Ingrid.”
“Van Essen. Not Bergman, lest you confuse us,” she adds, to which those in the circle laugh.
Gordon introduces everyone else while Ingrid commits the names to memory. If her suspicions are correct, at least a few will
likely be registered members of the Communist Party of America.
Crenshaw will certainly be pleased, yet this is not proof of the entire group being a front. Only of at least one Communist,
Gordon, discussing his party with others who may or may not be members. She lets Ada lead her away even as her heart races.
Is Ada aware that such conversations occur at her events? She will certainly be irritated if Ingrid questions her now. Or
worse, she’ll ask why Ingrid is so interested in what sorts of discussions are taking place here.
Or perhaps not. Perhaps she is just drunk enough to not be bothered.
“Leidje?” Ingrid prompts, although she keeps her voice down. Ada immediately shushes her despite a giggle and a glance to
make sure no one overheard. Indeed, just drunk enough. “Why did you start throwing these parties?”
“For fun, of course.”
“Nothing to do with politics?”
Ada wrinkles her nose. “Invite my friends over to discuss politics? Sounds dreadful—I’m not you. Only teasing, only teasing.”
She threads her arm through Ingrid’s. “You know I adore you, silly interests and all.”
As they walk, Ingrid bumps her hip against Ada’s in playful admonition, though her steps remain weighted with concern.
According to Ada, the Star Society is not intended to be a front organization, but considering her sister’s current state, Ingrid can’t accept anything with complete certainty.
When Ingrid convinces her to make her statement, she will advise her to clarify the purpose of her gatherings so these parties can be just that.
“Paul, tell Gordon to let you put up that privacy gate you mentioned,” Ada calls out as she drags Ingrid toward a distinguished,
middle-aged Black gentleman. “Between us, we can convince him to protect all your hard work, can’t we?”
This man must have built the house, then. He can’t be who Ingrid thinks he is—except of course he can, because nearly everyone
here is someone she never expected to meet.
“Paul Revere Williams, architect to the stars?” she clarifies. He grins.
“The very one.” He shakes her hand before turning to Ada. “We’ll get the gate up one of these days. Maybe after you hire me
to build you the biggest, most extravagant mansion in Hollywood Hills.”
“Sooner rather than later, darling.” Ada winks, then kisses his cheek and pulls Ingrid along.