Design for Dying by Renee Patrick Page B

States, and I wish him luck with that.”
    â€œIf he puts numbers on the horses and sells red hots in the stands, I’ll take a flier on it. Too bad your impressive work is for naught. Detective Morrow thinks we’re barking up the wrong Argentine. Even Edith couldn’t convince him.”
    â€œNuts. I’m staring at Armand’s address in Whitley Heights.”
    The idea was out of my mouth before I could consider the wisdom of it. “What say we take a look at this Armand character ourselves? We won’t do anything foolish. I know you’re curious. You could try spinning this into a story you can—”
    â€œHoney, why are you tying up the line with this palaver when I could be calling Ready right now?”
    *   *   *
    WHEN THE SILENT screen was king, many of its stars dwelled close to the firmament in Whitley Heights. The glamorously precarious neighborhood, perched on the hillside overlooking Hollywood Boulevard, had been the first celebrity enclave in Los Angeles. The houses on its narrow, winding streets had a Mediterranean flavor, all red slate roofs and broad windows. They offered seclusion a stone’s throw from the studios. The big names had since decamped for the more extravagant pastures of Beverly Hills, but once upon a time everyone who mattered lived up here. Charlie Chaplin, Harold Lloyd, Rudolph Valentino.
    â€œA few famous faces are still around,” I nattered from the backseat of Ready’s car. “Francis X. Bushman never left.”
    â€œI think we just drove past him delivering the mail,” Kay said.
    â€œBeautiful up this way,” Ready said. “I heard tell the big parties were thrown by Eugene O’Brien.”
    Kay snorted. “How do you two remember these people? Makes me think less of this Armand that he’s getting a nosebleed in the boonies.”
    Ready kept the car tooling toward the heavens. The edges of the roads were lined with iron posts linked by chains, decorative reminders that should you lose purchase, the plunge to Grauman’s Chinese Theatre was a long one. The hillside was gaudy with flora, bougainvillea and wisteria in abundance. I feared I’d get drunk on the scent of orange blossoms.
    â€œHollywood Bowl coming up.” Ready swung the car around a hairpin curve and the stadium appeared below us, waiting to fill up with music and light. “Seats aren’t the best, but you can hear the concerts from here.”
    â€œTroncosa’s place ahoy.” Kay indicated a villa shaded by olive trees and protected by a wrought-iron gate. Ready slowed as much as he dared. The house felt shuttered even from the street. Around the side we passed a garage and a wooden door like a chapel’s entrance set in a white stone wall. Both were closed. Ready kept the car in motion.
    â€œNot being skilled in detection as you ladies are, I’m unsure how to proceed. I’m guessing you don’t want to knock on the man’s door. And it’s not like we can stop and have a scout.”
    We passed one of the staircases connecting the hillside’s four levels. “Let me out at the top of those stairs,” I said. “I’ll walk past the house and give it a closer look. You can pick me up on the way back down.”
    â€œThe ol’ tourist gambit,” Kay said. “Never fails.”
    Within seconds the sound of Ready’s car faded, leaving me with only hummingbirds for accompaniment. I trod carefully down a flight of stairs that, like all of Whitley Heights, was picturesque and criminally vertiginous. On reaching its base I offered a word of thanks to Saint Elmo, patron of those who worked at altitude. Also of women undergoing childbirth, but I was saving that card for a later date.
    At Troncosa’s gate I stopped to adjust the strap on my sandal. The house remained eerily still. No newspapers on the porch, no uncollected milk bottles, every window closed.