He parked in front of the round-columned colonnade and got out. Before he could even knock, one of the ten-foot-tall rounded double doors with knobs the size of coconuts opened, and an old man with a creaky back and dressed in a butler’s uniform stood there like a statue.
Archer stared back at him, waiting for the statue to speak. The way the man was peering up at him, he seemed to think that Archer had missed the service porch entrance.
Archer introduced himself and added, “The lady of the house is expecting me.”
The statue hinged painfully at the waist. “Yes, Mr. Archer. She is. This way.”
And so Archer went that way. They passed rooms where two uniformed maids were dusting and vacuuming and apparently getting things just so for the evening.
He was deposited into a room nearly as large as a pope’s cathedral, but a bit more welcoming. A fire was lit in a fireplace cavernous enough for him to stand in. The furniture was costly, elegant, not too much, not too little. He felt like he could breathe in here, unlike back at Mrs. Danforth’s place, and not just because of the cats. He saw a stainless steel cocktail bar set up against the wall with jiggers and tumblers and shakers and a soda dispenser bottle and an ice bucket with a fresh layer of condensation on the sides like downy dew on grass. His lips started moving as he read over the assortment of whiskeys, gins, and bourbons. Detecting was thirsty work.
“Mr. Archer?”
He turned to look at the woman who had appeared in the arched doorway.
She was around forty, five-eight with a blocky build that was well nourished, a wide face, a long, smooth brow, and a pair of friendly, intelligent blue eyes. Her brown hair was wrapped in an elaborate French braid, and draped over one shoulder.
Her day dress accentuated her formidable hips. She had on sheer stockings that highlighted her muscled calves and slender ankles. She was an attractive woman who held herself with poise and confidence, though in those blue eyes Archer could detect some nervousness. That could just be because of his line of work. He was rarely around happy people, because happy people were never in need of his services.
“Yes. Mrs. Jacoby?”
They shook hands and she said the magic words. “Would you like a drink?”
“If you’re having something, whiskey and water would be great, no ice. I can mix it.”
She brought over the two glasses and a stirrer and Archer did the alchemy, leaving out most of the water. He noted that she opted for a bourbon and soda on the rocks with a wedge of lime. He had watched her make it with a practiced hand. He thought that bar must get a lot of use. Some people just loved alcohol and also had a happy marriage. They were in the minority, he’d found.
They sat in high-backed chairs by the fire.
“So, please tell me what’s happened to Ellie.”
Archer gave her a more detailed account, only leaving out the fact of his falling face-first over the body. He was going to take that one to the grave, unless the county cops beat it out of him first.
“And how do you know her?”
“We went to college together back in Boston, then I moved out here and she came later. She went into writing. I went into set design. I work at Warner Brothers.”
Archer looked around. “Which explains this place. It’s got an artist’s eye.”
“I could never afford a home like this on my own, of course. My husband is in finance, and he also comes from money. In fact, this was his parents’ home. Simon’s firm underwrites a great many film productions. He got into the field because of his father, who was a very successful producer. There were lots of connections available for him, you see.”
“I absolutely see. Business is good, I take it?”
“Hollywood is hitting on all cylinders, as my husband likes to say.”
“Any kids?”
“Three. The oldest just turned twelve.”
“Nice. You mentioned you and Lamb went to college together back east?”
“Yes, at Wellesley. I was an art major and Ellie was an Agora.”
Archer set his drink down. “Art I get, but what’s an Agora? It sounds like one of those islands in the Caribbean.”
Jacoby smiled weakly. “She was a history and political science major, and belonged to the Agora Society. They don’t have sororities at Wellesley, Mr. Archer, so these college societies became sort of like a sorority would be for us. Before she moved here, Ellie worked in Washington, D.C., as an intern or aide. She’s very smart, very... worldly, I guess you can say, unlike me. Her father was in the diplomatic corps. Consequently, she’s traveled all over. She can speak two or three foreign languages. I think that’s why she’s in such high demand as a writer. The studios like her renaissance quality, her je ne sais quoi, if you will.”
“Now, that’s a term you don’t hear every day. I spoke to Cecily Ransome, earlier. She is very concerned about Lamb and even hired me to find her.”
Jacoby looked into the fire for a moment, her features distant and opaque. “Cecily’s taken Hollywood by storm. She came at a good time — the war was over and sensibilities and expectations were changing. We came out of that dreadful time a more hopeful, but also a more sober, country,” she said, her wide shoulders slumping.
“After I came back from the fighting I wasn’t sober for about a year.”
She smiled briefly. “But I think people want something new, something different.”
“And Ransome can deliver that?”
“She’s done over a dozen pictures already, most of them with the major studios. Each one more daring and provocative than the last. They sometimes blanch at how far she goes and won’t write the check or allow their stars to appear, and then she just turns to one of the minor outfits, and enlists fine actors and gets her films done. They all make money because she has a devoted and growing following, and they get a lot of attention from the press. The studios love free publicity. She directs, too. That is very rare.”
“Have you done any of her set designs?”
Jacoby chortled over her bourbon, though he saw there was no corresponding levity in her features. “Our tastes and sensibilities are not simpatico, Mr. Archer. The reality is my schtick is fairly simple: I do the grand ballrooms, libraries, pools, and lavish bedroom sets. Early on in my career, I cut my teeth on screwball comedies with Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire, and Carole Lombard and William Powell.” She smiled. “I referred to them as ‘gowns and good golly’ pictures. The cinematic effect was wealth beyond all reckoning, but in the form of a comedy. I mean, no one really lives like that.”
Archer made a show of looking around and said, “Could’ve fooled me.”
She flushed at his words, but then smiled and said, “Touché.”
“Hey, live and let live. And if you work for Warners, I know you work hard.”
“The sets are wonderful to create. I could live out every fantasy I had.” She glanced at him before continuing. “I guess you would be surprised to know that I grew up in a small town in West Virginia where my father was a coal miner, and we lived in a shack in the hollers.”
Archer lifted his eyebrows. “You’ve come a long way from a valley in West Virginia. And I don’t hear any accent.”
“I spent a lot of money getting rid of it. People do that here, you know.”
“Do what?”
“Reimagine themselves. When I was a little girl, I would go to the one little store in town and leaf through the fashion and movie magazines and dream about... something better.” Her voice trailed off and she looked down into her bourbon like maybe other dreams were hiding in there for her to find.