Dream Town, page 13
The Green estate was gated with a large G on the wrought iron just so no one would be confused. High prison walls encircled the place. There was a phone at the gate to call the house.
Archer duly called and the gates duly creaked open. It was a typical Beverly Hills mansion: impressive in both large and small detail, with lots of terraced lawns, formal flower beds, and greenery sculpted by strong, experienced hands, and none of them belonging to the owners. He wasn’t speculating about this. About a half dozen muscled Mexicans were hauling dirt in wheelbarrows, spading the earth, putting large bushes in holes, and making this particular Beverly Hills palace all hunky-dory.
There was a Greek revival thing going on with the home’s facade, and the round columns looked substantial enough to hold up the Treasury Department. The number and size of the windows was all LA, though, and impressive, allowing the potent sun to filter through and ignite whatever the interior looked like to new levels of grandiosity for the visitor. It had the standard large central block and two wings set at obtuse angles to the main. It looked like the imposing place was trying to reach out and hug him, an impression that was a bit off-putting.
He pulled in front of the house on a cobbled motor court with grass growing perfectly between the pavers, and stopped next to a gray-and-white Bentley. He got out and felt the other car’s engine. It was warm. Mrs. Green had arrived, in style. He wondered if she had driven herself. He doubted it, but maybe the lady would surprise him.
He knocked on the door and then stood there, his hat twirling between his hands. He was led inside not by a butler, but by a young woman in a dark blue pencil skirt, long-sleeved white blouse, and white pumps, with a thin strand of fake pearls around her slender, freckled neck. She had introduced herself as Sally Dennison, Mrs. Green’s personal assistant.
Well, that was progress over the aged, liveried statue at Alice Jacoby’s place, thought Archer. Maybe the fifties really were ushering in a whole new dawn of bright, personal minions in cheap heels and faux pearls.
Mallory Green was waiting in a large room that could have been anything, really, thought Archer, so long as it looked expensive.
She was in her late fifties, around five-five, and thin in a way that perhaps spoke of skipped meals. Her gaunt, sibylline face reminded him of an ax blade, but the eyes promised greater subtlety than that. Her features, despite the gauntness, were both attractive and interesting in equal measure. Her lips were set firm and level, like a pair of two-by-fours. The blue eyes were alert, and seemed to flash whenever a bit of light from a lamp or the windows struck them, like exposed wires nestled together. The woman’s hair was piled on top of her head, except for a few curlicue strands that trickled down over her small, lovely ears. Green had allowed her hair to go white, a confident woman gracefully aging.
She was encased in a dress of electric blue that served to emphasize the color of her eyes, not that they needed it. The dress flared out, providing the appearance of width to her narrow, boyish hips. The hem ended just above the bony knees, which were imprisoned in sheer stockings. The Cartier diamond-encrusted watch sat on her wrist looking like the world’s fattest ring.
For nine thirty in the morning the lady was solidly put together and already in full battle gear.
Archer took a breath and waited.
Chapter 27
MALLORY GREEN INTRODUCED HERSELF AND offered him coffee, which he accepted, because the effect of the half pot already consumed had worn off. Eager-beaver Sally went off to relay the order.
A maid in full servant regalia brought it back in a cup and saucer with a fine filigree design. Archer sipped his coffee without slurping, just to show that he, too, had a bit of culture at nine thirty in the morning while wearing a still sandy, hastily sponged suit.
“So, you’ve had no word from Lamb?” he said after the maid had departed.
“None, neither has Cecily. We’re all terribly worried.”
“You might want to file a report with the county’s Missing Persons Bureau.”
“My God, aren’t they already looking for her?”
“Not necessarily. She’s an adult woman who can come and go as she pleases. I suggested to the cops that they consider her missing. But you filing a report can’t hurt.”
“Yes, of course. I will do so.”
“So they haven’t been by to talk to anyone about her?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
Archer didn’t know what to make of that. “Does she have any family locally that needs to be notified?”
“No, but I believe she has family back east.”
“So Lamb has worked at your husband’s company for how long now?”
The ax blade took a swipe at Archer and cleaved off a layer of his skin. “It’s our company, Mr. Archer. I’m a producer in my own right, though I create documentaries on subjects of importance. I’ve won two Academy Awards for my work, meaning Bart has two fewer than I do,” she added, in a matter-of-fact manner.
“Excuse me, I didn’t know that.”
“It’s all right. No one ever assumes the wives in this town have anything to do other than dress nicely, stay skinny, not dribble what little food we do eat down our fronts, and never, ever drink as much as our husbands, at least in public. To answer your question, Ellie has been with us for a number of years.”
“I would imagine you can do what you want, Mrs. Green, being as accomplished as you are.” He wanted to add, Like eat a proper meal every now and again.
“Documentaries, Academy Award–winning or not, do not make much money, Mr. Archer. But they cost quite a bit to make. Bart’s simple fare, on the other hand, practically mints the stuff. Thus, certain compromises must be reached.”
Archer was now done with discussing the Greens’ business arrangement, otherwise known as a festering marriage. “So, you wanted to talk to me?”
“Yes.”
“What about?”
“A status update on your investigation, of course.”
“Those are usually reserved for the client. Right now, that’s Cecily Ransome.”
She looked put out. “But Ellie’s my employee. And I care about what happens to her.”
“I understand. So while I’m here, do you know any reason why someone would want to harm Lamb?”
“No, none at all.”
“A man was found dead at her house. Someone had shot him in the head.”
“Yes, Cecily mentioned that. Do the police know who he is?”
“He’s a PI from Anaheim named Cedric Bender.”
If Archer had pulled a rattlesnake out of his pocket and thrown it at the woman, it would not have had a greater effect on Mallory Green.
Her eyelids fluttered, and then her pupils rolled like slot machine plates right into her head. He thought she was going to pass out, and she did slump to the side. She sat there breathing hard and looking distressed, holding her chest.
“Are you okay?” he asked quickly.
She nodded, but still looked weak and distraught.
He rushed over to the bar, poured some brandy into a cut crystal glass, and brought it to her. “Drink this. You’ll feel better.”
Green sipped the brandy and looked over at him, finally managing an embarrassed smile. “You must think I’m mad or something.”
“No, I just think you were shocked to hear a PI named Cedric Bender is dead. Would you like to tell me why?”
She grimaced and put the glass down. “I’m not sure what came over me. It’s not like I know him. I have been feeling unwell lately. Maybe the flu. It’s going around.”
“It’s not the flu.”
She glanced sharply at him. “I tell you that it is. I’ve been feeling poorly all week in fact.”
“And you’re sticking to that story?”
“It’s the truth!”
Archer put on his hat. “Okay, I’ll be heading out now.”
She looked up at him, her blue eyes crackling with energy. “What! Why? You just got here.”
“I’ve been retained to find Eleanor Lamb, preferably alive. I don’t have time to waste with people who are lying to me. Even I charge too much for that.”
She looked at the floor. “How dare you accuse me of lying—”
Archer broke in. “It wasn’t that hard in your case. Most people don’t nearly faint and then lie so badly afterwards they have to stare at the floor because they’re too embarrassed to look at the poor slob they’re trying to blow smoke at. So either Bender is your maiden name and Cedric is your beloved brother or other close relative, and you’re understandably upset at his being murdered. Or you hired PI Bender to do a job for you. In the course of doing that job, someone killed him. I told you he was dead. You clearly didn’t know that, and it shocked you. If I’m off, just tell me so, but tell me so while looking directly at me, lady.”
Archer wasn’t sure whether she was going to cry, attack him, or have him thrown out by the brawny Mexican grounds crew.
She surprised him. “You’re obviously very good at your job, Mr. Archer.”
“And I also have something called pride in my work and a couple of morals resting in my pocket, one of which includes telling the truth. I know that’s out of style in this town, but I keep trying. So why’d you hire Bender?”
She looked up at him, those two-by-four lips now twisted in anger. “To investigate my husband. I’m certain that crummy bastard is cheating on me. Again.”
Chapter 28
GREEN HAD A SECOND BRANDY and Archer watched her drink it dry. When she was done, she put the glass down, cocked her two-by-four lips just so, and looked at him like she was itching for a fight with someone about something, and he was the only one within pummeling distance.
“I suppose you have many questions for me,” she said icily.
“If Bender was sniffing around your husband’s infidelities, why was he in Las Flores Canyon? Do you think he was having an affair with Lamb?”
“Of course not. Bart only goes in for young and gorgeous. Ellie is neither.”
“Well, then that leaves out her neighbor, Mrs. Danforth, since she’s around eighty.” When Green didn’t respond, Archer did for her. “So that brings us to the Frenchwoman, Bernadette Bonham. But she’s around the same age as Lamb and she’s in France with her husband.”
“Is she?”
“Well, I was told that, but I haven’t verified it.”
“Then maybe you should.”
“I’m not working on your divorce case, Mrs. Green. That was Bender’s job.”
“I’m not seeking a divorce.”
“What then?”
“That’s my business. As you said, it’s not your job.”
Archer shook out a cigarette and held it up. “You mind?”
“No, the lighter’s over there.”
Archer picked up the lighter, as bulky and nearly as heavy as a cannonball, and lit his Lucky. He blew rings to the frescoed ceiling that held babies swirling amid clouds.
“When did you hire Bender? And why him?”
“I’ve used Mr. Bender before, when Bart was out carousing with other nubile women.”
“How’d you hear about him? He’s way down in Anaheim.”
“Other women in Los Angeles that I know had used him when their husbands…”
“Yeah, I understand. Go on.”
“One of them recommended him highly. And I didn’t want anyone from this lousy city. They all talk to each other. I did not want to be a laughingstock. Any more than I already am,” she added testily.
“Okay, I get that. And I’m not laughing at you. I just want to understand the situation.”
She set her glass down and looked at him expectantly.
“Did you suspect your husband was seeing Bernadette Bonham?”
“The fact is, I don’t know if it is her. Bender, I believe, was following up some other leads, too.”
“His car was seen outside of Eleanor Lamb’s house.”
“Who by?”
“Eleanor Lamb. And me. It’s now missing. But I guess Bender was watching the Bonhams’ place, not Lamb’s. He provide you with any reports?”
“Why?”
“If he has, I’d like to read them.”
“Why?” she said more sharply.
“Because he was found dead in Lamb’s house. The connection sort of speaks for itself.”
“I…yes, he did. The reports. I have them in my study.”
“I can have copies made and get you the originals back.”
Green flipped a hand carelessly in his general direction. “Oh, all right.” She rose and left him, coming back a minute later with a yellow manila folder; she handed it to him.
“Was this the only communications you had with Bender? Did you speak to him? Over the phone, or here? Or another place?”
“We had discussions on the phone.”
“Okay, so what did Bender tell you?”
“That Bart covers his tracks well. He has places arranged that he goes into and then out of from different doors. That Bart is always very careful never to be seen in public in the company of other women. This was all done with the purpose of allowing him to consort with other ladies who are not me.”
“You mentioned he had done this before?”
She rose and poured herself another drink. This time it was whiskey with no qualifiers. At this rate she’d be snookered by lunch, thought Archer.
She took a swallow and sat back down. “Twice before. Once with a ‘starlet’ in one of his movies, who was young enough to be his daughter. She is no longer in acting. She went back to Wisconsin or wherever the hell she came from.”
“So she couldn’t act?”
Green gazed at him in stern amusement. “You don’t have to be able to act, Mr. Archer, to become a star in Hollywood. But you do have to have a ruthless fire in the belly, because the competition is like nothing else on earth. And you have to be willing to sell a significant portion of your soul, or perhaps all of it.”
Archer momentarily thought of Callahan. “And the second time?”
“A secretary at his office. Bart surprised me on that one.”
“How so?”
“He likes women with big chests, like the best racehorses. She was as flat as a pancake, but I guess she had other appealing attributes.”
Archer couldn’t help but glance at the woman’s slender frame. She caught this look and smiled. “Bart and I have been married for over thirty years and have four children together. We met when Bart was different, and I was different.”
“There’s always divorce.”
“Marriage, for some, is a competition, and divorce signals winners and losers. And in this day and age, the men are the winners if they can get to that finish line. If I let Bart go now, he could publicly go out and get whoever he wanted. I, on the other hand, could not. And I would be blackballed in this town, because all the studio heads are lecherous men just like him. So if he wants to engage in adulterous liaisons, I just want him to have to work harder. That is really my only recourse.”
“Getting back to Bender. When was the last time you spoke to him?”
“The morning of New Year’s Eve. We were going to meet for lunch tomorrow and he was going to fill me in on things.”
“Did he give you a teaser over the phone?”
“No, he said he wanted to do it in person.”
“Well, that won’t be happening now.”
“You can’t possibly think that Ellie Lamb killed him? Why would she?”
“I don’t know. Did Bender ever mention that he thought someone was on to him?”
“No, nothing like that,” she said quickly, maybe a beat too quickly to Archer’s thinking. “I take it you don’t want to fly to Las Vegas and interrogate my husband?”
“Not today, no. When is he coming back?”
“He spoke of tomorrow or the next day. He was rather vague.”
“You have a photo of your husband?”
She rose again, rifled through a drawer, and pulled out a framed photo. She undid the backing and handed him the picture. She answered his puzzled expression with a terse “Why would I want to look at him?”
Archer gazed down at the photo. Green was standing next to his wife. He was shorter than her, and far wider with a blunt face, bald head, deep-set eyes, and a thin mustache over thick lips. The chin was weak, the cheeks inflamed, and still the overall look of the gent screamed a superior arrogance.
“Looks like a peach,” noted Archer.
“With cyanide inside.”
He rose. “I’ll get you Bender’s original reports back as soon as I can.”
“Don’t rush. What the hell am I going to do with them?”
Archer took his leave while Green poured another drink.
He had met a number of remarkable and distinct women in a very short period of time. Archer had a fairly firm understanding of Gloria Mars, the warrior. And of Alice Jacoby, the dreamer always looking for the greener grass.
The other three were less firm in his mind, but he was beginning to form a few impressions.
Cecily Ransome seemed to be everyone’s idea of the next generation’s great filmmaker. A breath of fresh, honest air in a town full of fuggy smog and dreary, worn-out ideas. He had found her interesting and confident, but perhaps not fully grasping the dark world in which she wanted to spend her days as a writer and director.
Mallory Green, the two-time Oscar winner, was old-school, but also hard and bitter about her unfair plight in life. He could appreciate it; he well knew the double standards employed between men and women in this town—hell, in this world. But she also seemed ruthlessly transactional in her approach to life and marriage. She would make her husband suffer for his infidelity, but she would not sever that bond because her own career would take a clear, if unfair, hit.
And then there was Eleanor Lamb. Missing person, afraid for her life, screenwriter extraordinaire, and a woman, at least according to Ransome’s granduncle, Sam Malloy, who should not be trusted.
