Free Design for Dying by Renee Patrick Page A

mode was difficult to resist. I wondered if she knew it, if Ruby had advised her to play that card. Fellas can’t say no to a frail, angel, especially a weepy one. Give ’em a show.
    â€œDon’t worry about it.” I drained all nuance from my voice. “I understand.”
    â€œHe’s obsessed with Ruby.”
    â€œHe certainly is. He said he’s going to find her killer before the police do.”
    â€œWhy?”
    I gave her a moment to work it out. She frowned. “Oh, no. He shouldn’t do that.”
    â€œPass that suggestion on to Tommy. He seems to listen to you.”
    â€œOnly when he wants something.”
    â€œThat should tell you the kind of man he is. Watch what you say to him. You could be getting people hurt. And by people, I mean me.”
    â€œI’m sorry, Lillian. I’ll keep my mouth shut, I promise. I’d shake on it, but my nails are still wet.”
    â€œYour word’s good enough. I saw Ruby’s photo in the paper.”
    Vi’s face crumpled. “I feel so foolish. How could I have thought that man was a detective? Him and his cheap suit.”
    Cheap suit? “Tall fellow, hair like a haystack? Loitering near the shortcut?”
    â€œYes! Do you know him?”
    I dabbed Vi’s eyes with a tissue. “I’ve made his acquaintance.”
    *   *   *
    THE AROMA OF cinnamon was still strong when I found Kay in the kitchen. “Remember Ruby’s friend Natalie?” I said. “I may know her last name.”
    â€œBig deal. Jimmie Fidler had it in his column four weeks ago.” Kay fished a notebook from her apron pocket and theatrically cleared her throat. “‘Who was that lovely lady on the arm of Argentine Armand Troncosa, he of the prancing polo ponies? None other than Princess Natalya Szabo of Hungary, who rumor has it is open to screen offers.’ Told you I’d track them down. I asked around about Troncosa. A regular playboy, took a house in Whitley Heights. Facts about Natalie are more scarce. Woman of mystery, regal bearing, some looker, the usual.”
    â€œTommy knows them. He told me to forget about them.”
    â€œThen that’s the last thing you should do. Tommy knows them?” A feverish gleam stole into Kay’s eyes. “Gangsters, royalty, and a murder. This caper gets juicier by the minute. I may ride this story all the way to Hearst’s office. At least until Paramount hushes the whole thing up.”
    â€œThat wouldn’t happen.”
    â€œCome on, Lillian. Wise up. Paramount is Adolph Zukor’s domain and nobody in Hollywood is more sensitive to scandal than ol’ Creepy. He’s already dealt with Fatty Arbuckle’s trial and Wallace Reid wasting away in a sanitarium on morphine. Plus William Desmond Taylor’s killer is still walking around, drawing a Paramount salary for all we know. Zukor’s not about to let Ruby drag his studio’s name through the mud.”
    At that moment, a tall drink of well water appeared in the back doorway. His rugged manner was undercut by a sweet grin. “Ladies,” he said. “Forgive me if I’m a little spooked. Miz Lindros mistook me for one of those press fellers and threatened to shoot me.”
    â€œShe actually has a gun, Ready,” I said.
    â€œOh, I know. I helped her load it once.” Hank “Ready” Blaylock had been involved with Kay for over a year. Ready had reliable work as a stuntman and rider in westerns, plus a fine car and an easy disposition. What he didn’t have was any interest in the fairer sex. He wanted to avoid questions as he worked his way up the Hollywood ladder. Kay, fixated on her career, needed an escort to various show business events. Their romance of convenience suited them both perfectly.
    â€œWhat brings you here, gorgeous?” I asked him.
    â€œKay made snickerdoodles. Word’s out all over