Reel murder, p.1
Reel Murder, page 1
part #1 of Trixie Dolan & Evangeline Sinclair Mystery Series
REEL MURDER
Trixie & Evangeline Book 01
Marian Babson
CHAPTER 1
There are certain decisions you regret from the moment they are made. By then, it is usually too late.
I knew better. Every time I had fallen into her net, I had lived to regret it. I refused to admit to myself the number of years—decades—it had gone on. It seems that bitter experience teaches us nothing. Or can it be true that some of us are born victims?
‘You’re an idiot, Mother.’ My beloved daughter did not hesitate to point this out to me at the airport. (Much too late.) ‘You know there’s trouble every time you have anything to do with her. She rushes ahead and does all sorts of awful things—and then you’re left holding the baby.’
‘It’s only a trip to London,’ I defended, glad that she could not read my mind. Poor Martha, she didn’t know the half of it. ‘Two weeks … a civilized city … everybody speaks English. What trouble could we possibly get into?’
‘Practically anything,’ she said severely. ‘I’m against this whole trip. I have been since the beginning.’
So had I. But I could not possibly admit it now. Besides, Martha was usually against practically anything you could mention.
‘Nonsense, dear,’ I placated. ‘We’ll have a lovely vacation and we’ll be back before you know it. You’ll see.’
‘I hope so.’ There was no hope in her voice, only a grim certainty that I was on a collision course with disaster and about to bring disgrace upon myself and everyone connected with me.
‘Dear Martha. Still the little ray of sunshine, I see.’ The bone of contention was upon us. In a sotto voce aside to me, she murmured: ‘So like her father. I always warned you that was a mistake.’
She had her brazen nerve, but there was no time to take issue with her; they were calling our flight. I kissed Martha hurriedly, promised faithfully to write every single day and tell her everything, then uncrossed my fingers and followed Evangeline Sinclair into the Departure Lounge.
It was just like old times. First, there were the sideways glances from our fellow passengers, then the furtive nudges, the whispers, and …
‘Is it?’… ‘It can’t be’… ‘It is—it’s her!’ … ‘She’s on our flight! Wait till I tell—’ …
Evangeline lifted her head higher and passed through the crowd which parted respectfully to allow her passage. She smiled graciously as she met timid eyes, nodded regally to those bolder ones who murmured a greeting. It was an auspicious beginning to our journey.
‘My God! Is she still alive?’ Then some fool spoiled it. ‘I thought she’d died long ago.’
‘Shhhhh!’ But it was too late. There was nothing wrong with Evangeline’s hearing. Her lips tightened, her eyes snapped—she’d retained every bit of her legendary temper, too.
‘Trixie!’ Without turning her head, she summoned me to her side.
‘I’m right here.’ I spoke quietly, both to avert a scene and to counteract the impression she was trying to convey that she was the grande dame and I was the walk-on maid.
‘Trixie? …’ I needn’t have worried; the whispers started again. ‘Trixie Dolan?’ … ‘Sure, didn’t you see her movie on TV last week? Gold-Diggers of the Great White Way—that’s what they used to call Broadway, back when Broadway was Broadway.’
Now it was my turn to nod graciously and smile. This was not what Evangeline had intended at all.
‘Dear Trixie—’ I knew I was in trouble. You’re always in trouble when Evangeline begins dealing you.
‘Dear Trixie, it’s so kind of you to accompany me on this trip to England. I can’t tell you how much it means to me to have one of my oldest and dearest friends by my side as Britain honours me.’
‘It’s just a private cinema doing a restrospective season,’ I said. She could always make me nervous, the way she inflated any attention shown to her. She was making this sound like the female equivalent of a Knighthood, at least. Audiences always did that to her.
‘In conjunction with the London Film Festival!’ She beamed upon me. ‘And affiliated with the National Film Theatre. I’m deeply honoured that they should want to do a retrospective of my films! I can’t think of any Body in the world whose accolade I would treasure more.’
And so much for the Metropolitan Museum of Art, which had been annoying her for years by digging up everyone else’s films and making a to-do over them.
‘Such recognition means so much more than the paltry re-runs on the Late Show—’
And so much for me, too.
‘Naturally—’ she added hastily—‘that is not to say that I denigrate television. It has a right and proper place in the scheme of things but—’
The loudspeaker cut across her, requesting that we proceed to the Boarding Gate and board our flight. Not even Evangeline Sinclair could compete with that. Her audience abandoned their fascinated eavesdropping and returned to their own affairs. The pushing and jostling regained its normal level as we struggled forward and eventually found ourselves decanted into the narrow aisles of our prison for the long hours of the flight.
‘I can’t get over it …’ Someone was still marvelling. ‘Evangeline Sinclair and Trixie Dolan—on our plane. And travelling together! I mean, wasn’t there some big feud? I thought they stopped speaking back in the ‘thirties. Or was it the ‘forties? There was some hushed-up scandal, anyway. And they had a knock-down drag-out fight and nearly killed each other …’ The voice dropped, going into gory details.
There’ll always be a film buff. Rumours, half-truths, whispers—they thrive on them. How they love to repeat them with the air of being in the know. I had someone’s flight bag knocking the back of my knees and Evangeline immediately in front of me, so I couldn’t turn around to see who was speaking. Not that it would have made any difference. This was neither the time nor the place for explanations or corrections.
Especially not the place. We had reached our seats and Evangeline was frowning. I didn’t blame her. I could already feel claustrophobia wrapping its tentacles around me.
‘Do they seriously imagine—’ her voice rose indignantly —‘that anyone larger that a malformed dwarf could endure this seating?’
The appreciative titters of her listeners did not placate her. Her righteous wrath went beyond any satisfaction at providing entertainment. For once, she was oblivious of an audience.
‘I’ll take the inside seat—’ I couldn’t stand a scene—not so soon. I pushed past her and curled into the inadequate space. ‘You can sit on the outside.’
‘To think—’ she mused loudly—‘that the French boxcars of World War One were considered so inadequate that soldiers inscribed “40 hommes, 8 chevaux” on them. What, one wonders, would those same doughboys say if they could see modern transportation—and realize that people actually paid for such accommodation?’
It was no time to remind her that when those same doughboys had left the ground they had often gone up in far worse machines. Not for nothing had they been known as ‘crates’. In fact, looking around, I could see one or two elderly gentlemen who looked as though they might have pioneered air travel—in crates that allowed them little more space than our seating.
‘Oh, Ms Sinclair … Ms Dolan …’ A flight steward rushed down the aisle towards us. ‘This is such an honour … I’m so pleased to meet you—’ He looked at our seats with horror. ‘But there’s been some mistake. Will you come this way, please?’
We struggled out of the seats and followed him to the First Class section. Another film buff doing his bit of homage? Or had he instructions from someone to upgrade us if there was room? It didn’t really matter. We settled into seats that were luxurious by comparison with those we had left.
The flight steward bustled behind a curtain and we heard the discreet pop of a champagne cork.
‘This is more like it.’ Evangeline nodded approval.
‘Here we are—’ The steward was back with two glasses of bubbling Veuve Clicquot. ‘We’ll finish the bottle after takeoff, but that will get you going. You’re very lucky. David’s piloting this flight. His takeoffs are so smooth no one has ever spilled a drop.’
‘How nice.’ Evangeline took a deep swallow, making it clear that there wasn’t going to be anything left to be spilt on takeoff. It seemed like a good idea and I did the same. I don’t like takeoffs.
‘I’ll top you up just as soon as we’re aloft,’ our steward promised, leaving us to usher some genuine first class passengers to their seats. Some of them glanced at us with interest, envy and—perhaps—surprise. We were a bit over the usual age for hurtling ourselves around the world.
It seemed no time at all until the engines revved up and we went taxi-ing down the runway, gathering speed. The plane tilted and we were airborne, deep into that first frightening thrust that lifted us into the clouds, leaving—in my case —my heart, stomach and courage still on the ground behind us.
‘We’re off—’ Evangeline drained her glass—‘on the Great Adventure.’
I wished abruptly that I had never played the lead in Peter Pan that season so long ago. As the plane seemed to hesitate and gather itself for the final great thrust into the stratosphere, my mind presented me with that classic finale: the darkened auditorium, the spotlight tight on my face as I lifted my head and ‘Peter’ said,
‘To die … might be the greatest adventure of all.’
CHAPTER 2
I don’t mind landings quite so much. Intellectually, I know that they’re just as dangerous as takeo ffs; emotionally, I feel that every foot closer to the ground is a foot closer to safety. I hadn’t realized I’d been holding my breath until I expelled it as the wheels touched the tarmac.
‘You just stay where you are, ladies, until we get the first rush out of the way,’ our steward told us. ‘We have special transport laid on for you.’
It was sweet of him to make it sound as though this was going to happen because of our fame and not our decrepitude. Whatever the reason, I was thankful to be spared the long, tedious trudge to the Customs Hall.
‘I’m afraid this isn’t quite what you’re accustomed to,’ the driver apologized as we sat on the back of his strange little vehicle, gliding past the jet-lagged lines of shuffling travellers.
‘Not at all.’ After a preliminary narrowing of her eyes, Evangeline had decided to be gracious. ‘I spent a large part of World War II entertaining troops all over the world and jouncing over battlefields in jeeps. This is a far smoother ride.’
In fact, I had done a lot more entertaining of troops in far-flung outposts than she had. While she had been mostly behind the lines in the European Theatre of Operations, the USO had assigned me to the Far East—and my jungle jeep rides had been a lot jouncier and more dangerous than anything she had had to face. Both of us had made several tours with Bob Hope; but then, who hadn’t?
Someone had collected our luggage from the carousel and it was piled waiting for us in the Customs Hall. It had been a long time since I had had this kind of service. Maybe it was going to be worthwhile travelling with Evangeline, after all.
I changed my mind again when we rolled through the final door, making our entrance to the crowd behind the barrier, a sea of anxious faces straining to watch for the appearance of their own personal star. I heard Evangeline draw in her breath with a hiss of displeasure.
‘What’s the matter?’ My heart sank. It had never taken much to set off that famous temperament of hers.
‘Look!’ She waved her hand towards the waiting crowd. ‘Just look at that frightful man!’
It took me a moment to spot him; quite a few of them looked frightful to me. Ours was the three-piece-suit, short-back-and-sides generation; multi-hued cockscombs and ragbag raiment held no attraction for me. Then I saw him. No wonder she was furious.
miss Sinclair said the neatly-lettered sign he was holding above his head.
Otherwise, he was a quite unexceptional early-middle-aged man. His suit was conservative, his hair was neatly trimmed, his smile was ingratiating—but he was for ever damned. He had betrayed the fact that he did not expect to recognize Evangeline Sinclair on sight.
Just then, he saw us. His face lit up with relief and he lowered the sign quickly. As he came forward to meet us, he detoured swiftly to drop the sign into a large refuse bin, not knowing it was already too late, poor creature.
‘Miss Sinclair, Miss Dolan—’ He rushed up to us. ‘This is a great honour—’
‘Yes-s-s-s,’ Evangeline said.
‘How nice of you to think so.’ I covered quickly, giving Evangeline a dirty look. ‘And you are—?’
‘Oh, forgive me. Hugh. Hugh Carpenter. Let me take your things.’ He took control of our luggage trolley, swinging it towards one of the exits. ‘The car is over this way.’
I trotted along beside him, trying to keep up a steady stream of small talk in the hope that he wouldn’t notice that Evangeline was stalking along behind us in stately silence. Unfortunately, he did.
‘Oh, I’m sorry—’ He slowed to a snail’s pace and gave her another of his ingratiating smiles. ‘Am I going too fast for you, Miss Sinclair?’
If looks could kill, he would have dropped on the spot.
‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply—’ He had already broken off in confusion before I nudged him.
‘We’re nearly there—’ He wheeled the trolley through sliding doors and had second thoughts. ‘Why don’t you ladies wait here and I’ll bring the car round? It will be easier now that I know you— I mean, you stay here with the trolley and— I won’t be a minute.’ He abandoned us and the trolley and loped off.
I hoped he was better at driving than he was at diplomacy.
He narrowly escaped being hit by an airport bus and three taxis as he crossed to the car park. I looked up at the towering structure, with its hairpin curves looping up to each level and hoped that he was on the lowest level. It was all too easy to picture him losing control of his car, careering down those steep curves, crashing from side to side until, at ground level, denuded of its fenders and bumpers, the car shot out into the road to collide with a double-decker airport bus.
‘Perhaps,’ Evangeline said thoughtfully, ‘we ought to take a taxi.’
‘We can’t, really.’ How I wished we could. ‘Not after he’s gone to all the trouble of meeting us.’
‘He reminds me of a director I worked with once. We lost three stunt men on that picture.’
‘Well, he’s not directing us, he’s only driving us in to town—and here he is now.’
He drew up to the kerb smoothly and leaped out to come round and open the rear door for us. He handed us into the car, getting it right on the first take, then resumed his seat behind the steering-wheel. It was the first indication that there might be hope for him yet.
‘Nice car,’ Evangeline allowed, as we sank back cautiously against the rear seat.
‘It’s a Rolls-Royce,’ he pointed out, just in case we hadn’t noticed. ‘Mr Sylvester has three of them. This is the newest.’
‘Not …’ The information seemed to give Evangeline pause. ‘Not Beauregard Sylvester?’
‘The one-and-only.’ Hugh Carpenter turned to beam at us over his shoulder. Three oncoming cars swerved abruptly as we verged perilously near the white line dividing the road and several cars behind us sounded their horns in varying degrees of alarm and indignation.
‘I didn’t know he was still—’ Evangeline broke off and resumed, ‘How is dear Beauregard? I haven’t seen him since … it must have been …’
‘Slaves of Passion,’ Hugh supplied cheerfully. ‘That was the one the Hays Office tried to ban—’ The sudden frost in the atmosphere made itself felt, even to him.
‘Yes-s-s …’ Evangeline said distantly. ‘Dear Beauregard. He taught me so much. But then, he was so much older than I. How is he these days?’
‘Flourishing,’ Hugh said. ‘Surely you must have followed his career, even though your paths divided?’
‘Oh, of course …’ Evangeline said vaguely.
‘I’m afraid I lost track of him a bit,’ I said quickly, knowing Evangeline would never admit to it. We’d never find out anything if I didn’t do a bit of tactful grovelling. ‘Please, just refresh my memory, if you wouldn’t mind.’
‘You probably lost track of him during the war,’ Hugh said forgivingly. ‘A lot of people did. He and Juanita Morez—’
‘His third wife, I believe.’ Evangeline remembered that much.
‘That’s right—and his last.’ There was a trace of acid in Hugh’s voice, perhaps he wasn’t as unworldly as he seemed. ‘They came here in 1937 to make a film for Sir Alexander Korda. An historical romance—’
‘He was always at his best with costume dramas,’ Evangeline murmured. It was not clear whether she meant Sir Alexander or Beauregard Sylvester.
‘Was that the one where he played a Cavalier?’ A dim memory stirred in my mind. ‘It kept turning up on the Late Show in the early days of television.’ In fact, it was one of the group of pictures off-loaded on to the early television companies that had done so much to give English films a bad name.
‘That’s the one!’ Hugh spun the steering-wheel expertly and we slid into the fast lane. ‘He Laughed Last—great, wasn’t it? It was such a success that they signed him for another straightaway and rushed it into production. That was The Merry Highwayman.’
‘Ah yes,’ I said reminiscently. That had shown up on the late-night shows, too. The reviews had been nearly as pungent as the film.
‘He enjoyed working in England—they both did. Juanita was starring in a West End musical comedy. Neither of them really believed there was going to be a war. Even after it was declared, there was that long interval when nothing happened—the Phoney War. Beau signed for another film. Even when Juanita’s show was closed when all the theatres were shut down, she didn’t care. By that time, she’d discovered she was pregnant and they were so delighted about it, they decided to have the baby here in England and settle permanently. They bought a Regency villa beside the Thames, near to the film studios where Beau was working. Then, of course—’
