I looked behind me. “Are you seeing double, Mr. Peake? Perhaps a visit to the eye specialist…”
He glared at me and the pencil in his hand snapped into two. “What I need to say, well…needs saying.”
He made no sense, of course, but I let it pass. Desmond Peake, Metro’s troubleshooter, had reached me at my hotel, insisting I visit Culver City for a short luncheon. When I said no, he announced that the studio car was already in the Ambassador parking lot, waiting. “It’s important.”
“I doubt that.”
“Why would you say that?” Real concern in his voice.
“Because such words usually introduce topics that don’t live up to the promise.”
He blathered for a bit and I almost felt sorry for him, so I consented.
Delivered by a taciturn chauffeur to Culver City, then sequestered in a private room, I dined quietly with Desmond Peake, though he wolfed down his pot roast with such alacrity I feared we were being timed in some competition no one had told me about.
“Tell me why you’ve summoned me here, Mr. Peake.”
He swallowed and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “You must be joking, ma’am. Four words. Max Jeffries. Show Boat. No, make that five words. Murder. Let me add two other words. Hedda Hopper. Very chilling words.”
“I’m aware of the meaning of all of them, sir.”
“Put them together and they spell trouble.”
“For whom?”
“Look around you, Miss Ferber. For Metro. Even after Max…died, Hedda Hopper persists in referring to you and Show Boat in her columns. Her last comments were beyond the pale.”
“I agree with you. Max was already removed from Metro some time ago. By you, I believe. And most unfairly, to be sure. He was uncredited for his work on Show Boat. None of that was acceptable to me…so why now…”
“You don’t seem to grasp the situation, Miss Ferber. Millions of dollars are at stake here. Reputations. Show Boat is to be premiered in two days. Today’s Examiner published another photo of you and Max and Ava Gardner from that infamous lunch you all had. This time with Ava sticking out her tongue. And then Louella Parsons’ blow-by-blow account of the melee at Don the Beachcomber. My God, Miss Ferber. Max did himself in.”
“And?”
“And you’re not listening to the message.”
Desmond Peake folded and unfolded the napkin in his lap. He was so tall and lanky, with such a long graceless neck on a head that seemed to bob as he spoke, that even sitting opposite me, five-foot little me, he loomed over me. Disconcerting, that image, for I had to look up at him though we were both seated.
“I’m going back to New York,” I announced. “I came here for Max and someone killed him.”
He placed his napkin on the table. “I’m happy you’ll be returning to New York. I know you were invited to the premiere at the Egyptian Theatre but…”
“I’ve already refused.”
The air went out of him. “I know. Wisely.”
“But I could change my mind.”
He narrowed his eyes. “But you won’t, will you? That’s why I invited you here today…to talk. You’re a sensible woman. I sense that about you. Hasn’t your name been in the scandal sheets too often lately? With Max, with Ava, even a casual mention of you with Alice Jeffries at the Paradise Bar the night Max died-and none of it favorable. You’re so…visible in Hollywood these days while publicly shunning our premiere based on your novel. People wonder why you’re still here. It’s only natural. So people expect you to be there. Show Boat doesn’t need that. Dore Schary is nervous.” He grunted. “The only one not nervous is Ava Gardner.”
“She loved Max, you know.”
“Max Jeffries is dead. So will be her career if she isn’t careful.” The napkin slipped off the table onto the floor. He glanced at it but didn’t retrieve it. I assumed it was too far to travel.
“Aren’t you concerned that Max was murdered?”
He didn’t answer, but shuffled to his feet. “I’m glad you’re leaving L.A., Miss Ferber. And I’m glad you’ll be absent from the premiere.” An anemic smile, forced. “It makes my job a lot easier. I’m glad we have this…understanding.”
Outside, standing with him as we waited for the car he summoned, I heard my name called. Ava Gardner rushed up, swaddled in a terry cloth robe, a scarf around her head, cold cream slathered on her cheeks. “My spies reported in,” she whispered. “I had to escape from makeup. No one told me you were here.”
Desmond bristled but stepped into the street, frantically waving to an approaching town car, probably hoping it would bump me onto an unused soundstage.
Ava whispered again, “I’ll call you later. We need to talk. Me and Francis and you. I’ll call. Don’t make plans. Please. I’ll reserve a private room at the Brown Derby.”
As Desmond Peake rushed back, out of breath, grasping my elbows, she winked at him and disappeared through a doorway.
He spoke through clenched teeth. “If she won’t listen to me, perhaps you will.”
I sank into the back seat. “This has been delightful, Mr. Peake. As always, you show a girl a good time.”
Back at my hotel, lying on my bed with my eyes shut, the telephone jarred me. As I lifted the receiver to my ear, Ava was already in mid-sentence, a rush of words that ran together. “That ass, Desmond. When will men learn that there are certain women you do not warn? Edna, I couldn’t talk to you at Metro. Desmond chased me around until I slammed a door in his face. He’s so afraid the premiere will be one publicity nightmare.” She waited a second. “Edna, we’ll pick you up at eight tonight, if you’re free. Please be! We need to talk. Just the three of us.” I could hear her deep intake of a cigarette, a slight raspy cough. “That is, if you want to. I’m being pushy here, Edna.”
“Talk about what?”
“Francis.”
“Has something happened?”
“This morning a New York columnist named Lee Mortimer from the Mirror, some cheap tabloid, actually accused Francis of murder. In black and white. It’s causing a fire storm.”
“It’s just a rumor, Ava. We’ve already discussed it…”
Her voice rose. “The wire services have picked it up. Soon it’ll be…true.”
A heartbeat. “Could he be the killer, Ava?”
For a moment I thought she was laughing, but it was a jagged cigarette cough. “I wouldn’t put it past him, but…no.”
“I wondered.”
“Tonight, Edna. Please. You can ask him yourself.”
“Ava, I’m not his favorite person. Would I risk an ashtray hurled at my ancient head?”
“I’ll make him behave.”
“You haven’t in the past.”
“Please, Edna.”
“All right, but he must be kept on a leash. There are times I think I might like him, but I wouldn’t put my hand into his cage.”
“Edna, really. Sometimes you talk like a gossip columnist.”
She hung up the phone.
“Well,” I talked out loud to myself, “there was no need to insult me.”
Ava told me we’d be entering the Brown Derby through a side door, slipping in unseen. I’d been to the famed eatery before and never liked the unhealthy mix of noisy tourists, second-rate film stars, and obsequious waiters. As Frank, Ava, and I approached the landmark I mocked its garish exterior: that Stan Laurel derby perched atop a building already fashioned after a derby. I was sitting in the rear seat of Frank’s Cadillac convertible and had insisted he put the top up. I was in no mood for a breezy joyride.
Frank turned back to me and laughed. “Edna, people travel across America to eat this expensive food.”
To which I replied, “Must we be part of that mindless herd?”
Inside the eatery, snuggled into a small room where we could still hear the hum of diners nearby, I noticed the decor was merely a hiccough of the larger room: the worn red banquettes, the glittery crystal chandeliers, walls covered with caricatures of the famous and not-so-famous-anymore celebrities.