Dream Town Read online

“Where do you live?”

  “In a canyon in Malibu. Las Flores.”

  Archer said, “That’s where the Sea Lion Restaurant is. Used to be the Las Flores Inn.”

  She eyed him with what Archer regarded as unease. “You know Malibu?”

  “Bad things happen in Malibu, too, you know.”

  She looked at them nervously. “But Las Flores is a hike from here and you two are out on the town tonight. How about you come by my office tomorrow?”

  “Where’s your office?”

  “Off Wilshire near San Vicente.”

  “Okay. Just write your home and office address down. I can get the check and have you sign the contract. And then we can head out to your house. Whoever is doing this obviously knows where you live.”

  Lamb took out a piece of paper and pen from her clutch purse and wrote down the address of her office and also that of her house and passed it to Archer.

  He glanced at it. “How do you like living in Malibu?”

  “It was fine until all of this started up.”

  “You’re near the Malibu Movie Colony. See a lot of stars out?”

  “None that I can’t see in town,” she answered with pursed lips that puzzled Archer. He could understand her being gassed out on the celebrities of the day, but in his limited experience the movie business was built on relationships.

  “Okay, what about your neighbors?”

  “There’s one on either side of me. The Bonhams are currently in France. The other neighbor is Sylvia Danforth. She’s eighty, widowed, and lives with her cats.”

  “So it’s doubtful the threats are coming from them?”

  “Yes, very doubtful.”

  “But what about the Bonhams? Anyone staying at their place while they’re away?”

  Lamb glanced guiltily at Callahan. “Look, it’s New Year’s Eve, and you’re here to have a nice dinner. Come to the office around ten.”

  “Not taking the day off then?” said Archer.

  “For me, tomorrow is just another day. It’ll be quiet. I can get some actual work done.” She gave Callahan a peck on the cheek and disappeared into the crowd.

  Callahan watched her go and then glanced at Archer. “So?”

  “So what?”

  “What do you think?”

  He shrugged and lit up a cigarette. “I don’t think anything. Not yet. What do you know about her?”

  “She’s from back east. Went to college there. Boston. She’s smart, well-read.”

  “I thought I caught a bit of Yankee Doodle Dandy underneath the LA grease coating.”

  “It does bother me that I didn’t know about her working with Mars on the Davis film.”

  “Why would you know? And why would that bother you?”

  “If you don’t know what’s going on in this town, you can’t take advantage of opportunities. I’d love to work with Davis. She’d eat me alive in every scene, but I could still make a splash, and the movie will be big news because she’s in it. And I could learn a lot.”

  “How about Lamb personally? She seems a little high-strung to me. Is she prone to hysterics? She’s a writer, so her imagination must be good. Could she be making all this up?”

  “No. She does her job and minds her own business.”

  “Well, from what the lady said, she stopped curling and dyeing her hair blond and went back to her natural brunette with hair straighter than my spine. I wonder why.”

  “She told you why. And she’s right, this town has too many damn blondes. The next time you see me, I might have pulled a Maureen O’Hara and all you’ll see is red.”

  “Do you know Green or Ransome?”

  “I’ve certainly heard of Bart Green. He’s done a lot, knows everybody, like Ellie said. I don’t know Cecily Ransome, though I’d like to.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s the change this town needs, Archer. Ransome is making pictures that are gritty, honest, and bone deep. I’d love to work with her.”

  “If I meet her I’ll put in a good word. You ever been to Lamb’s house?”

  “She had a one-bedroom in West Hollywood when I first met her.”

  “So the move to Malibu was fairly recent, then?”

  “I guess within the last two years or so. Is that important?”

  “Malibu isn’t cheap, and most working writers like to be nearer the action. She’s not an heiress or anything, is she?”

  “Not that she mentioned. And she never acted like she was in the money.”

  Archer finished his smoke and killed it off in the ashtray. “Let’s eat.”

  But his mind was now clearly elsewhere.

  Chapter 5

  ARCHER NEXT DROVE THEM to Wilshire Boulevard and through the gates of the Ambassador Hotel, a twelve-hundred-room extravaganza set on over twenty acres with pools, tennis courts, columns of private bungalows, and enough pretentiousness to satisfy the most inflated of egos.

  A spiffy valet in a mauve-colored uniform took the car key with a grin.

  “That’s a Delahaye 165 cabriolet,” he said.

  “Yes it is,” said a surprised Archer. “How do you know that?”

  “My granddad’s French,” he said. “He worked at the company before World War I.”

  “Great, but this has the steering wheel on the other side of the English Channel.”

  They entered the main dining room. It had once been the grand ballroom for the hotel; a thousand diners were eating and drinking, all while sitting next to fake, full-sized palm trees with mechanical monkeys swinging overhead.

  Archer knew the Academy Awards had been held here numerous times, and he had a feeling that Callahan would love nothing more than to walk down the red carpet with that little statuette. Now he looked at Callahan, and she eyed him back.

  “I won’t be long,” she said in an apologetic tone.

  “Sure you won’t,” he said dully.

  They had talked about this on the way over.

  Callahan was not really here for a drink. She was here to work.

  While Callahan went to mingle and see who she needed to see, Archer reversed course and went directly to the hotel bar, which looked like the world’s biggest palm tree had sprouted right behind the smiling countermen. Archer didn’t want a frond in his face, just a drink in his hand. And a minute later, in return for two bucks, he was saddled with a whiskey and water, where the whiskey appeared as a nominal oil slick on the water’s surface.

  One fresh-faced girl, presumably from out of state and there with her equally goggle-eyed parents, came up to him and, giggling excitedly, asked if he was famous and could she have her picture taken with him.

  “I’m famous, but only in my own mind,” he had dutifully replied.

  And she still had her picture taken with him and would go back to wherever to tell everyone about her once-in-a-lifetime encounter with someone who was so famous he denied being so.

  He downed his weakened whiskey and thought, Only in this town.

  He got up once and peered into the Grove and watched as self-important tuxedoed men sat around in their wicker chairs ignoring their meals and their powdered and primped wives and girlfriends while looking for fresh, if wildly impossible, female prospects. For their part, the wives and girlfriends smiled regally and tried to rise above it all, while really wanting to strangle their gents.

  Despite the flow from an air-conditioning system, sweaty waiters carried trays piled with steaks rare, oceans of mushrooms, and mountains of fried onion rings. A live orchestra played away, while lithe and limber dancing girls helped to boogie-woogie and tango in the new year. Ingots of golden light illuminated the show to such a bright degree that Archer eyed several patrons who had donned sunglasses.

  When Callahan circled back to him later, he said, none too happily, “See who you needed to see, or do I have to sit here hydrating with more water than whiskey, while you make another pass through the chow line?”

  She stroked his cheek in apology. “I know, Archer, it gets
me down, too.”

  He got her a drink because she looked like she needed it. “Is it really worth it?”

  “I don’t know. Yet. And look at you.”

  “Look at me what?”

  “You’re right here in the thick of it in wild and woolly LA. Must be a reason.”

  “Maybe I just like to be close to you,” he said, eyeing her over his tumbler of whiskey.

  “Right. When you work down here the only ones you’re close to are your clients and whoever ends up dead. And you’re thinking about Ellie Lamb. I know that look.”

  “I admit she interests me.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s holding back. Clients who lie to you are always interesting.”

  “What makes you think she’s lying?”

  “Just call it a professional hunch. She may not know who’s doing these things to her, but I think she has an idea why they are.”

  “If she does, why won’t she tell you?”

  “And therein lies the interesting part.”

  Chapter 6

  THEY ENTERED THE HOTEL’S LOBBY and took the automatic elevator up to the top floor. Callahan presented her engraved invitation to the petite young woman with a Dutch boy haircut who was checking the guests in. She obviously knew Callahan and was a little starstruck.

  “Oh, Miss Callahan,” she squeaked. “Everyone here wants to meet you.”

  Callahan said, “Donna, you’re cute. Go get a drink and enjoy yourself.”

  “But I have to make sure nobody crashes the party,” she squeaked again.

  “Trust me, honey, they want people to crash it. That’s how you know you’re really having a party worth going to in this town.”

  While Callahan went to powder her nose, Archer walked around. There was an odd mixture of black oak paneling in one room, cloister-vaulted ceilings in another space, and bleached-wood floors in the library. And then there was a waxed ceramic tile floor arrayed in a complex geometric pattern in the living room. Anyone drunk looking down at that was going to toss their cookies and leave their own pattern, Archer concluded.

  Positioned everywhere were mammoth bright blue chesterfields paired with painfully straight-back Spanish-style wooden chairs. Bowls of cigarettes and mints and nuts were on every low table. On every high table was booze. Archer spotted what he thought was an original Rembrandt on the wall. It was something to consider that the painting was worth far more than he would make in his entire life.

  There was a circular mirror on the ceiling in the large dining room, which was filled with massive Baroque pieces that would have looked dated in the twenties. He did wonder if the ceiling-mirror theme was repeated in the master bedroom.

  A platoon of waiters with slicked-back hair and white dinner jackets was handing out trays of champagne and canapes. The more serious male drinkers were lined up at the portable bars looking like a stiff one or four was exactly what was needed to propel them to 1953.

  A lavish blond wood radio, phonograph, and television console with curved lines was set against one wall, partnered with a tall glass-doored record cabinet. When Archer took a look at the record collection he found far more jazz and R&B than crooners and classical music. He picked out one record and looked at the label.

  “That’s Ray Charles, he’s blind,” said a voice behind him.

  He turned to see an auburn-haired woman with a Veronica Lake peekaboo standing there with a drink in one hand and a long-barreled cigarette in the other. She was around forty and flavored with an exotic perfume; the woman’s high-slitted Saks dress fit her figure like a hot wax mold. High-heeled gilt slippers graced her small feet. The pale, freckled skin of her upper thigh arrayed against the emerald-green dress looked marvelous to Archer. Her small, red-lipsticked mouth looked like trouble, though, and her amber eyes matched the mouth. She looked expensive and no doubt was. These were the times when Archer was thrilled he was poor.

  “Is that right?”

  She bit down on her porcelain cigarette holder. “I think he’s going to be really big.”

  “Good for him. I can’t carry a tune with a shovel.”

  She put out a hand. “I’m Gloria Mars.”

  He shook it. “Archer.”

  Mars was the Roman god of war, and she struck him as gladiator-like. Her features were hard-edged, her manner was swaggering and confident, and her lean frame portended strength. In his mind he dubbed her Warrior.

  “I saw you come in with Liberty Callahan. She’s in my husband’s next picture. It’s a piece of crap, but I’m sure Liberty’s already told you that. Danny just likes swords and shields, fight scenes, and busty women in see-through garments. She’s wasting her talents with this one.”

  “She’d be glad to hear that.”

  “Oh, I already told her. You look like you need a drink. What’s your poison?”

  “Can you do a White Russian, or will that get me up before Joe McCarthy’s committee?”

  “You hang around long enough, Archer, you’ll find I can do anything. And screw McCarthy. You mark my words on him, too, that son of a bitch’s on the way out.”

  She left him and went in search of a mixer man to orchestrate his drink. When she came back with it in an old-fashioned tumbler, they clinked glasses and he took a sip.

  “You like?” she asked, her eyes glistening like they had been splashed with tonic.

  “Yes I do. I hear you come from back east. You like LA?”

  “Some days. Most days I want to shoot everyone in it, and I don’t mean with a camera.”

  I get that, Warrior, thought Archer. “Nice place you have here.”

  “Danny tells everybody that it’s his. It’s not. We have a prenuptial agreement. This isn’t my first rodeo. When we go our separate ways he can find someplace else to live.”

  “Not betting on going the distance with him?”

  “I play the odds, just like I do with the ponies.”

  “So why’d you marry him, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “I do mind, but I’ll tell you anyway. He used to be really great in bed.” The eyes ran down him like an X-ray machine. “It’s not like Danny is going to thrill me with his culture. He grew up on a farm in Oregon. Came here in the twenties to get away from cow shit.”

  He sipped his drink and said, “Ran into Eleanor Lamb earlier tonight. Understand she’s working on a script for your husband to direct Bette Davis?”

  She eyed him coolly. “Bart Green is just throwing him a bone. Only Danny doesn’t know it or doesn’t want to admit to knowing it. No way in hell Bette Davis is letting Danny direct her. It would be like Lassie directing Brando, and that’s an insult, actually, to the dog.”

  “So, Green and your husband go way back, I understand?”

  “Farther back than me and Danny, but we’ve only been married three years. That’s the number wife I am by the way, three.”

  “You know Lamb well?”

  She looked over Archer’s shoulder and didn’t answer right away. “We’ve spent some time together. We’re certainly not best friends or anything. Why?”

  “She might be in need of my services.”

  The X-ray look came out again. She moved closer and the bare skin of her thigh smacked the flesh of Archer’s free hand. He didn’t move it, because he wanted information. Besides, her smooth skin felt nice.

  “And what services do you perform for women, Archer?”

  “I’m a private investigator. Oh, and I take on male clients, too.”

  She moved away from him. He saw a tiny red patch on her leg where his hand had maybe stroked it. She took a drag on her smoke. “Why does she need a PI?”

  “Why does anyone need a PI? They have a problem they want solved.”

  “And what is her problem?” Mars asked, a line of worry suddenly creasing her brow, which intrigued Archer.

  “Can’t get into it. Professional ethics. But what can you tell me about her?”

  “You sound like you’re investigating your own
client.”

  “Archer just likes to be thorough, don’t you, Archer?”

  Callahan had a glass of champagne in one hand and her clutch purse in the other. Her nose and the rest of her face looked superbly powdered.

  “That’s right. And getting to know the client often helps solve the problem.”

  “Liberty, you never told me you had such a tall, dark, handsome, and curious friend.”

  “I like to keep him under wraps. The competition here is murder.”

  Mars plucked out her smoke from the holder, dumped it on a passing tray, and loaded in a fresh cigarette she took from a crystal glass stuffed with them on a highly polished refectory table. Archer lit her up and she blew smoke out of her nostrils.

  “To answer your question, Ellie always struck me as a straight-laced, nose-to-the-typewriter type. Very focused. Once she knows what she wants, she goes out and gets it. She’s not a party girl. She was invited to this party, but I don’t think she’s going to show.”

  “You know anything of her personal life?”

  “I’ve been out to her place in Malibu.”

  “Why was that?”

  “A few times Danny needed some script notes delivered to her and I was going that way. Another time she had us over for dinner with Bart and his wife.”

  “Why does she live in Malibu?”

  “Why does anyone live in Malibu? For the sand? For the privacy?”

  “A little pricey for a typewriter type.”

  Mars gave him an unreadable look. “Maybe Lamb has another source of funds. People do, you know. My grandfather worked with J. P. Morgan. And my mother’s side comes from U.S. Trust money. I freely admit I did nothing to earn it. But I haven’t squandered it, either. I’m a girl who lives on the interest and doesn’t touch the principal. And I don’t let Danny touch it, either.”

  “Any other thoughts?” asked Archer.

  “Danny spends more time with her. You might want to talk to him.”

  “Thanks. Can you point me in the right direction?”

  “It’s easy. Find the cheapest-looking dame here with the biggest boobs, and he’ll be the really tall, bald guy right beside her looking down her dress for the sheer thrill of it.”