The Sharpest Needle Page 14

  ‘With Mr Baird as the blind.’

  ‘Exactly. Then Clarence became suspicious and …’ I trailed off into the dark.

  ‘The idea bears considering. Let me think about it. Are you sure you’re safe there? You’re taking care of yourself?’

  ‘I am. And I should run. Mr Hearst is somehow screening The Cat and the Canary for us tonight.’

  ‘What? Even I haven’t seen it yet! Go and tell me how it is come Monday!’

  As I set the receiver back in its case, I heard footfalls behind me. My whole body tensed. I turned, expecting Biel.

  Instead, I saw a different face illuminated by a lit cigarette. Kehoe’s chauffeur still wore livery but had lost his hat somewhere along the way. He smiled at me in a presumptuous manner I didn’t care for one iota.

  ‘Thought I saw someone scamper over here. You remember me, miss. Name’s Owen. Owen Dowd.’

  ‘Lillian Frost. Of course I remember you, Mr Dowd.’

  ‘I said “Owen” first, hoping you’d call me that. Even Mr Kehoe does, and he pays the bills.’ He waved his cigarette at Casa Grande, as if I hadn’t noticed the enormous house bursting with light behind us. ‘What brings you out here? Too much of the upper crust?’

  ‘In a way.’ I feigned embarrassment. ‘The food was a little rich. I had to clear my head.’

  ‘I hate to hear that.’ He quickstepped closer. ‘Would a ride down the hill help? Mr Kehoe won’t be needing me or the car this evening. Fresh air settles the nerves, they say.’

  ‘No thanks. Mr Rice is expecting me.’ Maybe the partridge and the wine really had gotten to me; I decided to take a wild gamble. ‘Where’d you take Mr Kehoe this afternoon? I saw the car when Marion and I were down in San Simeon.’

  ‘Post office. Boss had to mail something.’

  The post office right by the general store. So Kehoe – or Dowd, working at his behest – could have been the person searching the warehouse.

  ‘I’d better go.’ I weaved around the tree to avoid Dowd, who clearly wanted me to linger.

  ‘Tell me something,’ he said as I hurried toward Casa Grande. ‘Is the Davies woman like she is in pictures? Or is her nose permanently in the air?’

  Helpful maids directed me to the theater. I slipped into the rear of the house, the show yet to begin. Marion sat in the front row with Gandhi sprawled at her feet. Hearst towered over her, addressing her gently. She screwed up her face and smiled at him, the same winsome smile that captivated me on the movie screen as a child. Hearst, his memories of it far more vivid than mine, was even more entranced by it. Gazing down at her, he seemed years younger.

  Biel and Kehoe sat a few rows away, their foreheads almost touching as they consulted. I took a seat next to Addison. Marion spotted me, winked, and said something to Hearst, who picked up a telephone receiver. Within seconds, the room went dark. I half-expected one of Hearst’s own ‘News of the Day’ newsreels to start, and wondered how Kaspar Biel would react to images of Nazi aggression filling the screen. Instead, the Paramount mountain appeared, yielding to The Cat and the Canary. I applauded Edith’s credit, as did Addison. Then Marion joined in, and Hearst did as well, turning toward me and waving.

  The movie – about a will reading in an old dark house – was funny, scary, romantic. In short, everything I wanted in a picture. I’d been terrified by the original in my impressionable youth, but that one didn’t have Bob Hope cowering in the face of danger while making eyes at Paulette Goddard. The fun was over far too soon for me.

  As the lights came up, Hearst clapped his hands. ‘All those thrills have left me peckish. I’m off to the kitchen to prepare a Welsh rarebit. If anyone wants some …’ Selden instantly fell into step behind him, talking a mile a minute. Hearst nodded, a look of supreme forbearance on his face. The others took their time breaking up, no one willing to pass their host on the way out of the theater.

  Marion hadn’t moved. She was still staring at the screen. ‘Did you enjoy the picture?’ she asked me. ‘Paulette was good. She held her own against Bob Hope, which is saying something. He’ll fight you for every laugh. That’s the kind of part I wished I’d gotten to play. Funny. Plucky. Kind of – what’s the word? – intrepid.’

  ‘You had your share of parts like that.’

  ‘Not in a good picture. With sound. I played what W.R. wanted me to play. The old so-and-so.’ She drawled a little as she spoke, showing the toll of the night’s intake. Her mood grew maudlin. ‘He lives for this house, you know. That’s why it’ll never be finished. I’m convinced it was finished once, years ago, and he just told the workmen to keep going. He needs a grand project to keep him alive. That’s why he buys art for rooms he hasn’t built and never will build. It’s the planning that gets him out of bed.’ She gave a soft, shuddering sigh. ‘His Welsh rarebit is good. You should have some.’

  Instead, I went to bed. I was walking back to my suite when I spied Kaspar Biel in the hallway. Part of me wanted to bombard him with questions – Ever hear of Clarence Baird? Were you in San Simeon this afternoon? Part of me was tempted to hide behind a tapestry; in Casa Grande, one was always close at hand.

  Biel turned and saw me. His teeth flashed in the dark.

  ‘A most agreeable film, was it not? Bob Hope plays the essence of the American very well. A thin layer of bravado over cowardice and indecision, with a blind faith all will work out in his favor.’

  ‘And it did. He even got the girl.’

  ‘Would that we could all be so rewarded, each of us finding what we seek. Perhaps I should indulge in some of that American blind faith. Or perhaps such faith will not be necessary.’ Biel bowed to me. ‘Goodnight, Miss Frost.’

  I stayed put until he departed, then took a roundabout route to my room. Once inside, I toyed with the idea of wedging a chair against the door. But it was too heavy to move by myself.

  EIGHTEEN

  My eyes cracked open at the crack of dawn. The goddess Diana still kept watch from the ceiling. Our final morning together. Frankly, I was happy to greet it; I hated the role of ingrate, but my bed was far from comfortable. And the duplex suite had turned surprisingly cold overnight.

  I reluctantly shucked the sheets, then navigated the stairs and struggled into my swimsuit, mint-green cotton edged with white ricrac. After shoving my Medusa mop into a bathing cap – no need to frighten birds or the elderly – I slipped out to make the most of my last day at the ranch.

  I snuggled into my borrowed robe against the morning’s chill. My destination, the Neptune pool, was as close as I’d ever come to appearing in a Cecil B. DeMille picture. Massive white marble colonnades bracketed a body of water longer than a football field. A Greco-Roman temple façade stood on one side, the columns buttressing it – I had been assured by Mr Hearst personally – dating back to the grand days of Ancient Rome. Statues of various perfect physical specimens ringed the pool. I hoped they’d been trained as lifeguards, because at the moment I had the joint to myself. And while I had partially mastered the float, I still wasn’t much of a swimmer.

  I gingerly dipped in a toe and almost pitched face-first into the water when I realized every cubic gallon of it was heated. I walked down the stairs to immerse myself, not wanting to intrude on the morning’s silence with so much as a splash.

  Steeping in the water, I contemplated how another swimming pool had altered the arc of my life. Winning the beauty pageant that inaugurated the Astoria pool in 1936 had sent me across the country to California. In another life, that had never happened, and I could picture that shadow-self – riding home in a packed subway car to a sweltering walk-up, too wiped out from the heat to even think about relaxing in the waters of Astoria – so vividly I wanted to place a cooling hand on her brow.

  For the first time in days, I thought about my late father. Edith, as usual, had been right about the San Simeon getaway being just what I needed. Did my father have any idea I’d pulled up stakes and moved to Los Angeles? Had he ever asked anyone what became of me? Had
we passed each other on my long train ride west and not known it?

  The sky seemed bluer, farther away, more expansive. A rich man’s sky, yet I was under it, too. I gazed up at the heavens and thought about where my father might have been, where he had gone, and where I might be going next.

  Where I shouldn’t have gone next was back to my suite for a shower. Marble might be lovely to look at, but I soon discovered torrents of hot water couldn’t warm it up. So many of Casa Grande’s luxe fixtures proved more decorative than functional. Shivering under the spray, I considered stealing back to the pool with a cake of soap and a towel.

  An attentive staff took breakfast orders in the Morning Room. If I encountered Anthony Selden, I intended to pierce his pompous peddling and probe where he’d been the previous afternoon – and whether he had any ties to Clarence Baird. But Addison was the only other early riser.

  ‘Still feeling the bumps and bruises of yesterday’s ride,’ he confided. ‘My bed didn’t make matters easier. That Selden fellow called it the Cardinal Richelieu bed. I don’t know if Richelieu actually slept in it, but it would certainly keep me up nights conspiring. I tried to arrange a cup of coffee in my cottage, but I had to trek over here to the big house for it. No idea why.’

  ‘To get you out and about!’ William Randolph Hearst thundered. He eased himself into a chair opposite us, an impish smile on his face. His eyes, though, remained indifferent. ‘We don’t want anyone hiding away on their own. Especially as you’ll be leaving us today.’

  Hearst set a newspaper on the table – Britain, France Spurn Hitler Peace Plan – as Marion, wrapped in a gold brocaded satin dressing gown, drifted into the morning room like a child awakened from a disturbing dream: face drawn, hair in disarray. Before she could gesture to me, I was on my feet, going to her. She took my hand at once.

  ‘We’re off to Wyntoon this afternoon, as soon as the guests leave. I convinced W.R. it was his idea. I’m going to—’

  Walter Kehoe strutted in, interrupting every conversation. He was dressed for golf in a bright orange short-sleeve shirt and tan slacks, but carried a walking stick instead of a nine-iron. ‘Just wanted to say farewell and thanks for a splendid weekend, W.R.,’ he said.

  ‘Leaving already?’ Addison asked.

  ‘Business rears its ugly head. If I head back now, I can make it to Los Angeles before dinner.’ He leaned closer to Hearst as if to express a confidence, but didn’t lower his voice. ‘You’ll take care of Vera’s arrangements?’

  ‘Already done,’ Hearst assured him.

  Kehoe tapped the newspaper’s front page with his walking stick. ‘See there? Mussolini spearheading the peace effort. Holding the whole continent together, that man. I hope you’ll give him the credit he deserves. He’s a real leader.’

  ‘We’re keeping abreast of the situation.’ The line had the sound of one Hearst used all day long, in a range of situations.

  After more effusive words of thanks, Kehoe gushed at Marion, who escorted him out of the room. Biel strode past them, looking like he’d slept in a broom cupboard. Upright, bristles sharp, ready to work. Marion’s dog Gandhi bared his teeth and growled, the first time I’d seen him do that.

  ‘Good morning, all. What a rest I had! No coffee, thank you, I never indulge. Some of that wonderful fresh orange juice for which California is famous would be welcome.’ Biel’s eyes scanned the morning’s headlines without betraying any reaction. ‘Could I interest anyone in tennis this morning? You, Miss Frost? A round of mixed doubles, perhaps.’

  I smiled thinly. ‘I haven’t played in some time.’

  ‘Then it’s a question of finding you the right partner. One who balances your skills. If you—’

  Timothy Randolph padded in, gesturing for java. ‘What’s this? Tennis? I’ll play. So will Vera. It’ll take her mind off being left in the lurch by Kehoe. She’s terribly upset. She has to ride home on the train with us, can you imagine? You and I must go easy on her, Miss Frost. She’s so very delicate.’

  We broke up to change clothes then reconvened at the tennis courts. Biel, I was loath to admit, looked elegant in his traditional long white slacks, while Timothy opted for current fashion and gabardine shorts. I pressed a blouse with a sailor collar into service. Vera, naturally, had a pristine white tennis outfit with her, which she slouched in becomingly.

  The match – Frost, L./Randolph T. vs. Randolph, V./Biel, K. – got off to a fast start, with no help from me. I was a far more effective spectator than a competitor, but what I lacked in finesse I made up for in perspiration. Biel whetted his expert play with a ferocious sense of competition. Timothy, though, was even better, and his deceptively lazy approach to the game got under Biel’s skin. As for Vera, she did precious little in a foul humor, but it dawned on me that her sulking was an act. She consistently managed to get in Biel’s way, throwing him off his stride and upsetting his game. For the first time, I saw glimmers of the talent Walter Kehoe admired. What’s more, Vera and her bogus brother/private paramour seemed to be communicating with each other, working in unison to defeat Biel. He carried on undaunted, though, treating the match like a duel.

  During the occasional breather, I surveyed the adjacent court, where Anthony Selden had surfaced. He lobbed balls and ceaseless patter at Hearst. Our host played in regular shoes and a high-collared shirt, content to let errant shots and queries bounce past him. Marion, in an enormous hat and sunglasses, shouted encouragement to him, her only company an unusually large tumbler.

  Biel (and, technically, Vera) took the first set, but we rallied for the second and wore him down for the third. When he finally lost, he took it with grudging grace. ‘Well contested,’ he said as he vaulted the net to shake Timothy’s hand. ‘I’ll be driving down to Los Angeles after I change, so I’ll take my leave now. Perhaps a rematch?’

  ‘I’m usually around,’ Timothy said.

  ‘Excellent.’ Biel squinted at me. ‘You showed the spirit I expected, Miss Frost. I’ll see you again, I’m sure.’

  ‘Looking forward to it.’ Too bad I was still panting when I delivered my devastating riposte.

  As Biel strode off, Timothy sighed. ‘Here’s hoping the Germans accept more defeats soon.’

  Vera huffed. ‘It’s so beastly hot. I’m throwing myself into the pool before being shoehorned onto the train.’ She delivered the line so convincingly I wondered if I’d imagined her conspiracy with Timothy.

  Hearst and Selden had long since retired, but Marion still lolled in the bleachers, sipping from her tumbler with Addison now at her side. He beamed at her, hanging on her every word.

  Our departure from La Cuesta Encantada combined a family reunion winding down with an unruly bunch of conventioneers getting the bum’s rush. Hearst offered vague farewells, his eyes on the mighty stack of Sunday newspapers he had yet to review, reminding us we’d meet again soon enough at the party at the beach house next weekend. ‘Fitting end to the summer,’ he repeated as he shook every hand. I looked into those eyes, which evinced all the warmth of an abacus, and thanked him sincerely.

  Marion managed to hug me close while clutching a squirming Gandhi. ‘Don’t suppose I can persuade you to come to Wyntoon,’ she cooed into my ear. ‘I can’t bear the thought of doing this alone.’

  I rubbed her shoulder vigorously, trying to calm her down. ‘You’re more than capable. Call me anytime.’

  The procession of cars angled down the zigzagging road from the enormous house. No, castle. I had lived in an actual castle for the last few days. Marion was the girl who had dreamed of becoming a princess and actually became one. Only now she was a prisoner in her castle, her prince grown too old to save her. If anything, she’d been called on to save him.

  The train ride back to Los Angeles largely mirrored the journey up. The duke and duchess reclaimed their seats and the backgammon board, the mystery couple – I didn’t want to learn their names now – again opposite them.

  Vera was the sole new ingredient, and I seized my shot
to learn about her history with Kehoe – and with Timothy. She grimaced when I sat next to her. ‘It’s not you,’ she said unconvincingly. ‘Train travel always gives me a headache. The one I got when I came to California lasted for days. I already asked for an aspirin.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Was your first train ride here a long one?’

  She scowled. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I’m asking where you’re from.’

  ‘Oh. Back east.’ She looked around the carriage’s luxurious appointments as if she were about to cry. ‘Walter told me Mr Hearst provided private cars. Not just the one.’

  Times are tough, sweetheart. Even for press barons. ‘Walter rushed off in a hurry this morning. What was that about?’

  ‘I haven’t the faintest. He never tells me anything. Except what time he’s going to pick me up.’

  ‘When did you two meet?’

  ‘A few months ago. At some screening or other.’ She pressed a single slender finger to the center of her forehead and closed her eyes. ‘This is agony. You don’t have an aspirin, do you? I asked for one, but no one seems to be listening to me.’

  Taking my cue, I left her alone, passing word to a porter to bring poor Miss Randolph relief.

  A few minutes out of San Luis Obispo, the terrain beyond the windows became wild, practically primitive. High cliffs on one side, the Pacific perilously close on the other. I almost preferred traversing it in total darkness. I wouldn’t have minded a few dozen more miles of avocado farms.

  Timothy sprawled on the same bench, furiously sketching the world that rolled by as if the weekend hadn’t happened. ‘Don’t you look comfortable?’ I asked with a certain degree of jealousy.

  ‘This kind of trip’s easy when you’re in no hurry. I have nowhere else to be, nothing better to do.’