Script for Scandal Read online

  ‘She had to run to the Costume Department for something.’

  ‘I’ll look for her there. Break a leg.’ I squeezed her hand and took my leave, not looking back until I’d stepped into the sunlight. The elephant doors were trundling shut, and outside Stage 13 the red wigwag light blazed to life. The world of Streetlight Story was being hermetically sealed off.

  Brenda truly did look grand, doing Edith’s efforts proud. Still flustered, she had fallen into conversation with Fred MacMurray. His commentary elicited a giggle from her. I’d seen Gene provoke similar laughter from Abigail. My last glimpse was of the two of them stepping into the shadows that Norman the cinematographer could never render dark enough.

  EIGHTEEN

  My traitorous shoelace had come undone again. I tied it with a double knot stout enough to support a ship’s anchor, visualizing Bette Davis rolling those oh-so-expressive eyes, as I waited for Edith outside her office.

  ‘There you are!’ She beetled in, fussing with her hairpins. ‘I must have missed you.’

  ‘That’s OK. I ran into everyone else. Did you see Bill?’

  ‘Bill? Ihnen? Is he here?’ She checked her hairpins again. ‘I didn’t see him, either. Now. What’s going on?’

  I told Edith about my fateful evening. She expressed sympathy over my ordeal. ‘A dexterous piece of deception on Sylvia’s part. She not only knew what pages she could pass off as her own without discovery, but developed sufficient acumen to offer Mr Dolan suggestions on Streetlight Story’s script.’

  ‘Suggestions he actually took,’ I said in wonder. ‘Do you buy Gene’s notion of why she’d do it?’

  ‘Given Mr Fentress told the authorities Miss Ward was his mistress, it’s entirely plausible.’ The telephone interrupted her. She uttered a string of crisp syllables into the receiver, then set it down. ‘I have a thought about one aspect of this matter. I’ll elaborate after a trip to the workroom. Care to come along?’

  Not one of the dozen or so heads bent over sewing machines looked up when Edith entered the expansive workroom. But somehow those machines thrummed faster, the seamstresses operating them instinctively sensing their boss’s arrival. Edith strode over to a shapely dress form, the gown draped upon it familiar yet foreign.

  ‘Is that Brenda’s dress for the nightclub scene?’ I asked over the machines’ murmur.

  ‘We reused the original skirt. The production may have a higher budget, but that’s no cause to waste the studio’s money.’

  Atop the long skirt of soft black crepe, the newly constructed bodice shimmered in pale pink beading with darker bands on the collar and sleeves. The height of elegance, the dress guaranteed all eyes would be on Brenda well before Luddy called ‘Action’.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ I breathed.

  ‘Presentable, perhaps. With a few alterations.’ After exchanging sentences in Spanish with a nearby seamstress, Edith patted her shoulder in commendation. The woman’s evident pride nearly bore her aloft.

  A sight across the workroom made Edith blanch. To my amazement, I heard her curse under her breath before she sprinted toward a woman who appeared to be proffering a box of chocolates to a pair of seamstresses.

  Unable to resist, I trailed after Edith.

  My first surprise came when I recognized the mystery woman as Paulette Goddard. The raven-haired actress had made an impression as the barefoot waif who wins Charlie Chaplin’s heart in Modern Times – and another when she pulled off the trick in real life. The exact nature of the cohabitating couple’s relationship remained an enigma; the gossip columns regularly speculated on whether Chaplin and Goddard were in fact married, and if so when and where the ceremony had been performed. Land or sea? Catalina or China? There was certainly an Oriental influence on Goddard’s bewitching silk shantung dress in navy and rose, the navy bolero jacket trimmed in rose braid.

  Bombshell no. 2 was realizing Goddard was not sharing candy with the Wardrobe Department but holding open a cigar box overflowing with jewelry. Necklaces, to be precise, a few of the baubles rubies and emeralds but the bulk of them the sob sister of stones, plain old white diamonds. Goddard waved the box at a panic-stricken seamstress, chirping, ‘Ignore the colored ones that snuck in there. They’re worthless. That’s usually where men start, so those you have to send right back.’

  The seamstress’s eyes flicked to Edith, who presented the final, most staggering surprise: the almost icy tone with which she addressed Goddard. ‘Done with your wardrobe tests, Paulette. And back in that lovely dress.’

  ‘I bought the fabric while Charlie and I were touring China. Had it made at Mainbocher’s in Paris. You know that’s where the most skilled silk hands are. Just thanking the ladies for their work by passing along a little hard-won advice.’ Goddard thrust her trinket trunk at another terrified tailor. ‘Never take anything from a man that goes bad.’

  ‘Rubies go bad?’ I blurted.

  Pity elevated Goddard’s sculpted eyebrows. ‘Oh, honey.’ One of the seamstresses mustered up the nerve to lean forward and peer into the jewelry box. Goddard pulled it back, snapping the lid shut.

  The sharp sound proved the straw that fractured the dromedary’s dorsum. Edith briefly closed her eyes before speaking. ‘We’ve taken enough of your time today, Paulette.’

  ‘I don’t mind. Who else wants a gander?’

  None of the seamstresses moved. The mercury in Edith’s voice tumbled. ‘I’ll call when we’ve arranged the next test. Thank you.’

  The last two words sent Goddard scurrying from sight. Edith stood still as if guarding against the actress’s return. Then she declared, ‘I’m sorry you were subjected to that, ladies,’ repeating the line en Español. The wardrobe staff kept their eyes on their work.

  As we mounted the stairs to her office, Edith said wearily, ‘Miss Goddard will be appearing in The Cat and the Canary opposite Bob Hope. We’ve shot two dozen wardrobe tests and she’s rejected the clothes in each one. This for a movie that takes place over a single night, requiring limited costume changes.’

  ‘Maybe she’s still smarting over losing Scarlett O’Hara to Vivien Leigh,’ I said.

  ‘No. She just enjoys showing off her jewelry. Even to women who work long hours for too little pay.’

  Edith had banned the brouhaha from her mind by the time we reached her door. She asked me to wait in the outer office while she used the telephone. When she fetched me several minutes later, I detected an element of triumph in her customarily inscrutable expression.

  ‘I was struck by Florabel Muir’s assessment of Sylvia’s friend Virginia Hill. Not to suggest Miss Hill is involved in Sylvia’s death, but given her alleged underworld associations she may warrant a closer look.’

  Having had the same thought, I nodded vigorously.

  ‘A woman of means has only so many options in Los Angeles when it comes to clothes. I made inquiries and, as befits our putative heiress, struck oil right away. I telephoned Howard Greer. Do you know him?’

  ‘By fancy label only.’

  ‘Howard once occupied this very office. He gave me my start. An original Greer gown from his salon is proof you’ve arrived. Naturally, Miss Hill is one of Howard’s best clients. I thought perhaps he could provide insight into her character.’

  ‘There are no secrets in a dressing room. It’s a wonderful idea. When can I see him?’

  ‘How about now? I’ll arrange an introduction.’

  One of Edith’s secretaries cracked open the door. ‘Mr Ramsey is calling again.’

  ‘Tell him I’m out.’ Edith adjusted her spectacles. ‘You know, it’s been too long since I’ve seen Howard in person.’

  We took Gower to Sunset. A mere two turns, but with Edith at the wheel the ride felt like a spin in a Tilt-A-Whirl. As she drove, she briefed me on Howard Greer.

  ‘He began by designing for Lucile, Lady Duff Gordon. A testament to his talent that that should be his first position. Paramount brought him out in 1922. He hired me, but he did so much more tha
n that. He endured my insecurities, taught me everything I know. Smoothed the way for me to work with Travis.’ Travis being Travis Banton, Edith’s predecessor and the man she eventually replaced. ‘Howard left the studio in 1927. His salon has been a roaring success from day one. Nothing but bespoke garments for the carriage trade.’

  ‘And apparently couriers for gangsters.’

  Edith wrenched her roadster around a truck. ‘Howard always was an egalitarian.’

  We coasted to a stop outside a low white stucco structure with a red tile roof. Pepper trees cast architecturally perfect shadows over the building. An attendant in plum-colored livery greeted us, the words GREER, INC. in gold on the brim of his hat. Angels sang as Edith and I crossed the threshold.

  A circular staircase spiraled us up to a desk. Behind it stood a bluff-featured man with graying hair save for a black widow’s peak. He had the demeanor of a modestly successful businessman pressed by the city fathers into running for mayor – only any businessman who wore such an immaculate suit would immediately be suspected of graft. Howard Greer welcomed Edith effusively. His broad Midwestern accent had acquired a few plummy tones, the customary adornments for those who had conquered Los Angeles. Edith introduced me, and Howard waved toward a mammoth book on the desk.

  ‘I insist you both sign our guest register to commemorate this splendid occasion. Don’t worry, you don’t have to buy anything.’ I added my best schoolgirl scribble under Edith’s, noting the top entry on the page was a princess I’d never heard of from a country unknown to me.

  Howard led the way into the main room. At the sight of it, my fingernails sank talon-like into Edith’s shoulder. She gracefully shook them off, having visited this outpost of paradise before. A fire crackled, more for the sound effect than the warmth. The walls had been swathed with burgundy satin. Strategically placed divans could accommodate fainting anywhere in the room, a low plaid desk next to each one suitable for the writing of sonnets or checks. Through the open patio doors I spied green tables and chairs underneath awnings. From the adjacent room drifted soft classical music, accompaniment to the mannequin parade staged for the paying customers. I glimpsed a statuesque blonde in curve-hugging gold lamé as she passed a redhead in a black cocktail dress, a garden of embroidered pink roses framing the neckline. I pirouetted in place, unsure where my gaze should linger.

  Howard beamed at the effect his establishment had on me, then turned to Edith. ‘If it weren’t for that silly fashion board set up by the Mojud Hosiery people, my dear, Travis and I would never clap our weary eyes upon you. You’re like some half-remembered dream. Has it really been fifteen years since you slinked into my office, looking like a pussy cat drawn by Fujita, with a clutch of borrowed drawings you claimed were your own? So clever, our dear Edith.’

  Edith’s smile was indistinguishable from a wince; she had no interest in rehashing past crimes, at least not her own. ‘How is Travis?’

  Howard responded with a hand motion that meant nothing to me but communicated volumes to Edith, for she shook her head sorrowfully. ‘How about some tea?’

  ‘We don’t want to be a burden,’ Edith said.

  ‘Nonsense. This place essentially runs itself. I’m scarcely needed when Miss Wong is here.’ He gestured at an elegant Oriental woman in emerald green observing the mannequin parade like its watchful grand marshal.

  ‘We wanted to ask about that client I mentioned,’ Edith said. ‘Virginia Hill.’

  ‘Then I insist we go outside. In springtime, all my conversations take place al fresco. With tea.’

  Gray-clad retainers manifested on the patio from some unseen kitchen. They poured piping hot tea into china cups bearing the same tartan pattern as the desks inside. The extravagant touches did not strike me as excessive in the least. The oasis Howard Greer had created was not predicated on luxury but grace. This, each perfectly calibrated detail proclaimed, is how life is meant to be lived. And it can be, with only a miser’s bankbook and a savant’s style. My stay in Hollywood’s premiere palace of couture glamour might be brief. But I vowed to enjoy every sumptuous minute of it.

  The tea, need it be said, was delightful.

  ‘Lillian!’ Howard said my name as if he were thrilled beyond repair to find me in such surroundings. ‘Do you work with Edith at Paramount?’

  ‘No, I’m the social secretary for Addison Rice. I feel as if I see your gowns on a weekly basis.’

  ‘His parties keep the doors open, bless him!’ Howard pressed his palms together and cast his eyes heavenward. ‘I haven’t relied on anyone like him since Ethel Barrymore walked in soon after we opened and laid out sixty-one one-hundred-dollar bills for an entire wardrobe. The wolves weren’t only at the door, they’d counted out their cutlery in the lobby.’

  ‘I still think of that opening night,’ Edith said with a laugh.

  ‘The night before!’ Howard crowed. ‘That’s the one that haunts. There I am, convinced we’re going down the drain before one customer has set foot inside. So certain am I of ruination I begin downing martinis. Not at Travis’s pace, but then I’m only a mere amateur by comparison. I head home that night in the company of some of the girls, and as we’re racing through the intersection of Hollywood and Vine a police officer pulls us over. I open the car door and in a moment of unsurpassed suavity drop my cocktail shaker to the curb, where it lands with a pronounced clank.’

  ‘What did you do?’ I asked.

  ‘Let it be known the first Greer original to go forth into the world was a print silk chiffon tailored for the considerable frame of Mrs O’Leary, wife of Patrolman O’Leary, for her to wear to many a policeman’s ball. Long may it wave.’ He saluted in the general direction of Hollywood and Vine.

  ‘Are you still naming the gowns?’ Edith asked. ‘The Biarritz, the Baccarat, the Balmoral—’

  ‘And those only the Bs! We had other monikers, too. Whoops, Get Her and Blind Nuns Under Water come to mind, but those were only for internal use.’

  ‘If I may ask,’ I ventured, ‘why did you stop designing for the movies?’

  ‘Ornamentation!’ he thundered. ‘I would complete a gown and be told by starlet, director, and executive alike, “Exquisite! Now add ruffles and some fringe and we’re off to the races.”’ He shook his head solemnly. ‘My designs, for good or ill, require a third dimension to be appreciated. The subtleties of color, of fabric, of draping that speak to me don’t register on the screen, while the clothes that make an impact there are too grandiose for everyday use. I lack the unerring camera eye that Travis and dear Edith possess.’

  She clucked at the compliment. ‘Say it as many times as you like, Howard, I’ll never believe you. I steal from you to this day. Much as we’d love to revisit that bygone time, we’re here on something of a mission.’

  ‘I know. That’s why we took the air.’ Howard’s eyes flitted about the patio. ‘She’s here.’

  ‘Who’s here?’ I asked.

  ‘Your quarry. Virginia Hill. She’s attending a party this weekend and requires a dress. She also requires lingerie, and that’s where I left her. In the lingerie room.’

  The words made sense individually but not collectively. ‘The – I – you have a lingerie room?’

  ‘Mais bien sûr. The salon’s fitting rooms are styled to make each woman look like the best possible version of herself based on her native coloring. Blonde, brunette. A room for ladies who have embraced the gilding of silver in their hair. Each of those chambres de magie has been designed to eliminate distractions and place the focus squarely where it belongs: on la femme.’

  ‘Genius,’ Edith said. ‘A towering idea.’

  I had so many, many questions. I started with the obvious. ‘What does the lingerie room do?’

  ‘Puts one in the right mood.’ Howard smiled devilishly. ‘Steel yourselves, ladies. Virginia has been in there for quite some time.’

  NINETEEN

  A gray-clad attendant was dispatched to the lingerie room. She returned to whispe
r in Howard’s ear. ‘Virginia is still being fitted, but she has chosen to grant you an audience,’ he informed us. ‘I wish you both Godspeed.’

  The attendant led the way to a door and knocked. ‘Come on in and don’t be shy,’ Virginia called back.

  She waited inside Howard’s chambre de magie in a borrowed green satin robe and mules. She hadn’t cinched the robe shut, revealing swaths of ivory skin and delicate fabric almost the same hue. The gleam in her eye made it plain the dishabille was a deliberate decision to discombobulate us.

  She needn’t have bothered, and not only because Edith had seen those with more notoriety wearing even less. Virginia in a state of semi-undress could not possibly compete with the room itself. Cushions erupted from the French day bed that served as the centerpiece. A green dressing table crowned with a trio of mirrors was complemented by matching tufted chintz chairs. Rose-shaded lamps cast a beguiling glow over all – save the fur rug that lolled lasciviously off the day bed onto the floor. Aside from its black trim, it had been dyed the fervid green I associated with arsenic. No flood of rose light could pacify its effect.

  ‘Ain’t it grand the way Howard takes care of you?’ Virginia grinned and hoisted her drink. No afternoon tea for her. ‘Got a pitcher of stingers, so help yourself.’ She embraced me, and I was enshrouded in a lush cloud of Chanel No. 5. At my mention of Edith’s name, Virginia decorously pinched her robe closed.

  ‘I know your name from the movie magazines,’ she said.

  ‘As I know yours from the gossip columns,’ Edith replied.

  ‘What say we set all that nonsense aside and really get to know each other?’ Virginia toasted her own idea with a sip of her stinger.

  ‘I can tell you have excellent taste if you’re allowing Howard to provide, one might say, a complete wardrobe.’

  ‘The French know a lot about lingerie – it’s their word, after all – but nothing about the lines. I want ’em snug. It should look like you’re not wearing any.’

  Edith sniffed. ‘I can attest from my years in fitting rooms there are many women who make that very choice.’