“Could I ask you some questions?”
She shrugged. “I guess so.”
“Did you see Liz Grable walk in?”
She looked perplexed. “The actress?”
I beamed. “She’ll be happy hearing you call her that.”
She grinned. “I’ll bet. A first time for everything. She used to drop by at the office to pester Max. She was seeing…Tony Pannis.”
“Not any more.”
Sophie’s face fell. “Yes, I did see her. Later in the evening, though. I was ready to get out of there. She walked in and stood in the doorway. Just stood there. We all looked up. She caught me looking at her and she backed up. She looked…I don’t know…hurt. I figured she was there to see Tony, but I know she didn’t like going to the Paradise because that’s where Tony drank and got nasty and weepy and stupid.”
“So she left?”
“I guess so. I turned back to my friends and when I looked back at the doorway, she wasn’t there. Gone. What does she have to do with this?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Well, you don’t think that she killed Max, do you?”
I didn’t answer her.
“Well?”
“I don’t know.”
She harrumphed, and then seemed to think better of it. “I’d be surprised. She always struck me as sort of pathetic.” Then her eyes widened, frightened. “You don’t think that I killed Max, do you?”
“No.”
But her eyes were wary as she twisted in her seat, staring over my shoulders. “I stormed out of there but I didn’t go to see him. I swear. I told the police that.”
“Could you answer one more question, Sophie?”
That stopped her. A small voice, nervous. “What?”
She gave me the answer I expected.
Late afternoon, refreshed from a pot of coffee at a diner across the street from Sophie’s office, I sat by the window and watched Sophie hang a CLOSED sign in the door, lock up, and slowly walk down the sidewalk, headed in the direction of her apartment. A half hour later, a taxi dropped me off at Culver City where I mentioned Ava’s name. As promised, she’d left my name at security, but the guard at first seemed hesitant to call her. I raised my voice. “She’s expecting me, young man.”
“Mr. Sinatra is here.”
“So what? She’s expecting me.”
“Of course.” He dialed a number and waited. He refused to look into my face, but finally said, “Here. She wants to talk to you.”
Ava did not sound happy to hear my voice. “Oh, Edna, you did come, after all.” Then she whispered, “Your phone call this morning jarred me.”
“It was meant to.” I stared at the guard who was biting the edge of a fingernail. “I have things to tell you.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Is Frank there?”
Surprise in her voice. “He’s at a meeting. Why?”
“I’d rather see just you.”
“I’ll walk down to meet you.”
I was directed to a small lounge that boasted one china plate on which one stale doughnut rested, centered on a table with magazines. I examined a freshly mounted poster of Show Boat on the wall. Perhaps, I grumbled to myself, in the future I’d best travel with a magnifying glass, all the better to view the teeny-tiny letters of my name buried at the bottom. I was but one degree of niggardly separation from the key grip and best boy.
Men’s voices drifted in from the hallway, one of which was Desmond Peake’s. I suspected security had promptly alerted him to my annoying presence, and he’d scurried from his warren to greet me. He peered into the room, eyes slatted. “Miss Ferber, two days in a row you’re here. A pleasure.”
“Are you sure of that?”
“I was until a second ago.” He was tickled by his own humor.
I smiled. “Then there’s hope for you yet, Mr. Peake.”
“Ava expects you?”
“You already know that.”
He sat down next to me, and twisted his body around to face me. “A banner day here at Metro. Frank Sinatra is back on the lot. The exile returns, at least temporarily.”
“Another one of your favorite people.”
He ran his tongue into the corner of his mouth. “I have so many.”
“Mr. Peake, may I ask you a question?”
“You just did.”
“Clever boy.” But I wasn’t smiling now. “Tell me, do you think Max Jeffries was murdered by some misguided patriot?”
He stammered. “What?” Then, back in full control, “Of course not.”
“You say that with such certainty.”
He took a long time to answer, as though weighing his words. “Admittedly there could be a crackpot out there, some vigilante, but I don’t think so. Wouldn’t someone like that-a victim of some delirium-target a higher profile name? Someone like…I don’t know…an actor like Larry Parks, currently in the news. Someone who’s already appeared before Congress. Max was a small-time offender, though I admit he’d been spotlighted in the press. But a hoodlum wouldn’t seek him out.”
“What about someone in your America First organization?”
He bristled. “We’re patriots, and non-violent. We’re theorists, constitutionalists, loyalists. We…”
“Don’t murder?”
A thin sliver of a smile, indulgent. “Of course not. We want names…not obituaries. We’re true Americans, Miss Ferber. We want apologies, recanting, and loyalty oaths. People do make mistakes, and we forgive them, so long as they acknowledge the error of their ways.”
I shivered at that, but went on. “So who killed Max?”
“I assumed all along it was some personal vendetta.” He stood. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Miss Ferber. I have appointments. I trust Ava Gardner will take care of you.”
“She already has.”
A puzzled look on his face as he backed off.
“Oh, Mr. Peake, one more question.”
He stepped closer. “What is it?”
“Larry Calhoun is a member of your organization?”
“You already know the answer to your own question.” He started to walk off.
“I have a favor, Mr. Peake.”
He turned back. “And what is it?”
“I’d like to talk to Larry. I have a question for him. Could you please ask him to call me?”
He deliberated, his brow furrowed, but then he nodded. Without another word, he disappeared into the hallway.
A few minutes later Ava stepped into the room. “I see Desmond has been here already. He sputtered at me as we crossed paths.”
“Well, he actually served a purpose today. He told me something I wanted to hear.”
Ava scoffed. “Edna, what?” But she didn’t wait for an answer. She cradled my elbow under hers, our shoulders touching. The scent of jasmine, heavy and cloying. “Let’s go back to my dressing room.”
I accompanied her down the hallway, neither one of us speaking. Smiling, she bowed me into her rooms. I expected a familiar Broadway dressing room, small and cramped, the sickening smell of old stage makeup and mouse droppings. The lingering bite of sweat and spit. Instead Ava escorted me into a spacious three-room suite, with a stocked kitchen and bathroom. I swept my hand around the room. “I guess you’re a star.”
“That could change in a heartbeat, Edna. Tomorrow I can be back in a closet with has-been darlings.” She looked worried. “Right now Francis is trying to woo himself back into the contract with Metro.”
“Will it work?”
She shrugged. “He can be charming.” She glanced toward the shut door, then up at a wall clock. “I expect him here in a bit.” She moved around the room nervously, looking into a mirror, playing with lipstick on a tabletop, reaching into her purse for a cigarette. “He can also be a bumbler.”
Determined, I reached out and held a hand against her shoulder. “Ava, stop moving.” Both of my hands held her shoulders as I looked up into her face. “Ava, I want to go back to our conversation this morning.”
She looked away for a second, her eyes lingering on the closed door. “Edna, you scared me.” Almost a whisper.
“Did I really?”