ground and covering it with dirt.
“Looks like you’ll have to hoof it from here, ladies,” the taxi driver said, lurching to a stop behind a gray Rolls-Royce. “I can’t get you any closer.”
“Anyway, thanks for trying.” Frankie dug in her little black handbag for the forty-cent fare.
While Frankie paid the driver, Kathleen surveyed the mob that stood between them and Arthur Cohen’s final resting place. “I’m not sure this was such a good idea,” she said, displaying the quintessentially British talent for understatement.
“Of course it is!” Frankie declared with more bravado than she felt. “After all, we were acquainted with the deceased, at least a little bit, which is more than any of those people can say. They have to let us in.”
Quickly, before Kathleen could suffer a change of heart and order the taxi to turn around, Frankie wrenched open the door and stepped out onto the bright green grass. The heels of her black patent leather pumps instantly mired in the soft ground; a lawn this lush was impossible to achieve in California without daily watering. Stepping gingerly to avoid sinking to her ankles, she made her way past the luxurious automobiles and scanned the crowd for the most likely point of attack.
“What a pity we’re not famous,” sighed Kathleen, hurrying to catch up. “Then the crowd would part magically before us.”
“If you were really famous, they’d be more likely to rip that pretty black frock right off your back,” Frankie observed pragmatically. “Wait a minute! If that’s who I think it is, we’re in!”
Picking up her pace, she headed straight toward a young policeman struggling to hold back a gaggle of girls dead set on catching a glimpse of Clark Gable among the mourners.
“Why Officer Kincaid, fancy meeting you here!”
“ ‘Afternoon, Miss Foster.” The young policeman nodded at her, then glanced at her companion with combined curiosity and admiration.
“I’d like you to meet my roommate, Kathleen Stuart.” Frankie gestured toward the British girl. “Kathleen, this is Officer Kincaid, one of L.A.’s finest.” As the two shook hands, Frankie came to the point. “Officer, can you get us past the rope?”
He raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You’re not still trying to play detective, are you?”
“No, no,” Frankie assured him with less than perfect truth. “Kathleen and I both worked for Mr. Cohen in some small capacity, and we’d like to pay our last respects—which is more than you can say for most of the people here,” she added, glancing across the expanse of green to where the Marx brothers wept sentimental tears for the benefit of a Variety photographer. A scant ten yards away, gossip columnist Louella Parsons scribbled furiously in her notebook as a script girl from The Virgin Queen described a lurid scene that bore very little resemblance to reality.
“—Blood simply everywhere , and poor Mr. Cohen moaning in agony—”
The policeman, who had been inclined to turn the two girls away, struggled in defeat. “I guess it’s okay,” he said, dropping the velvet rope for them to pass. “I’ll be going off-duty after the funeral. Can I give you a ride home?”
“That would be lovely,” said Frankie, thinking of the forty cents she would save.
A light breeze ruffled the skirt of her black-and-white spotted crepe dress as she and Kathleen made their way closer to the grave site. Frankie had never been to a Jewish funeral before—Mama didn’t quite approve of Jews, even if they were God’s chosen people—and she was struck by how similar and yet how different it was from her grandmother’s funeral five years ago. The chief mourners, family members of the deceased, were gathered in a tight cluster about the grave. Letitia Lamont was there, dressed in black from head to toe—at least, Frankie assumed it was the producer’s widow beneath a wide-brimmed hat swathed in black netting. Maurice Cohen stood at her elbow, pale
“Looks like you’ll have to hoof it from here, ladies,” the taxi driver said, lurching to a stop behind a gray Rolls-Royce. “I can’t get you any closer.”
“Anyway, thanks for trying.” Frankie dug in her little black handbag for the forty-cent fare.
While Frankie paid the driver, Kathleen surveyed the mob that stood between them and Arthur Cohen’s final resting place. “I’m not sure this was such a good idea,” she said, displaying the quintessentially British talent for understatement.
“Of course it is!” Frankie declared with more bravado than she felt. “After all, we were acquainted with the deceased, at least a little bit, which is more than any of those people can say. They have to let us in.”
Quickly, before Kathleen could suffer a change of heart and order the taxi to turn around, Frankie wrenched open the door and stepped out onto the bright green grass. The heels of her black patent leather pumps instantly mired in the soft ground; a lawn this lush was impossible to achieve in California without daily watering. Stepping gingerly to avoid sinking to her ankles, she made her way past the luxurious automobiles and scanned the crowd for the most likely point of attack.
“What a pity we’re not famous,” sighed Kathleen, hurrying to catch up. “Then the crowd would part magically before us.”
“If you were really famous, they’d be more likely to rip that pretty black frock right off your back,” Frankie observed pragmatically. “Wait a minute! If that’s who I think it is, we’re in!”
Picking up her pace, she headed straight toward a young policeman struggling to hold back a gaggle of girls dead set on catching a glimpse of Clark Gable among the mourners.
“Why Officer Kincaid, fancy meeting you here!”
“ ‘Afternoon, Miss Foster.” The young policeman nodded at her, then glanced at her companion with combined curiosity and admiration.
“I’d like you to meet my roommate, Kathleen Stuart.” Frankie gestured toward the British girl. “Kathleen, this is Officer Kincaid, one of L.A.’s finest.” As the two shook hands, Frankie came to the point. “Officer, can you get us past the rope?”
He raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You’re not still trying to play detective, are you?”
“No, no,” Frankie assured him with less than perfect truth. “Kathleen and I both worked for Mr. Cohen in some small capacity, and we’d like to pay our last respects—which is more than you can say for most of the people here,” she added, glancing across the expanse of green to where the Marx brothers wept sentimental tears for the benefit of a Variety photographer. A scant ten yards away, gossip columnist Louella Parsons scribbled furiously in her notebook as a script girl from The Virgin Queen described a lurid scene that bore very little resemblance to reality.
“—Blood simply everywhere , and poor Mr. Cohen moaning in agony—”
The policeman, who had been inclined to turn the two girls away, struggled in defeat. “I guess it’s okay,” he said, dropping the velvet rope for them to pass. “I’ll be going off-duty after the funeral. Can I give you a ride home?”
“That would be lovely,” said Frankie, thinking of the forty cents she would save.
A light breeze ruffled the skirt of her black-and-white spotted crepe dress as she and Kathleen made their way closer to the grave site. Frankie had never been to a Jewish funeral before—Mama didn’t quite approve of Jews, even if they were God’s chosen people—and she was struck by how similar and yet how different it was from her grandmother’s funeral five years ago. The chief mourners, family members of the deceased, were gathered in a tight cluster about the grave. Letitia Lamont was there, dressed in black from head to toe—at least, Frankie assumed it was the producer’s widow beneath a wide-brimmed hat swathed in black netting. Maurice Cohen stood at her elbow, pale
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