Murder in Disguise Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Recent titles by Mary Miley

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Acknowledgments

  Recent titles by Mary Miley

  Roaring Twenties series

  THE IMPERSONATOR

  SILENT MURDERS

  RENTING SILENCE *

  MURDER IN DISGUISE *

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  STOLEN MEMORIES

  * available from Severn House

  MURDER IN DISGUISE

  A Roaring Twenties Mystery

  Mary Miley

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2017 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

  This eBook edition first published in 2017 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2017 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD

  Copyright © 2017 by Mary Miley Theobald.

  The right of Mary Miley to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8714-6 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-822-4 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-886-5 (e-book)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  ONE

  Death visited Hollywood about as often as it did the rest of the country. Children were carried off by polio; grandparents gave way to old age; and the influenza came shopping for victims with sad predictability. But murder? Murder dropped by a little more frequently here than it did other places.

  Joe Petrovitch was murdered on a sunny Saturday afternoon in early October during the ninth reel of Charlie Chaplin’s The Gold Rush, gunned down in the projection booth of the theater where he worked. His young assistant witnessed the crime close up, although shock muddled the story he gave the cops afterward. I had never met Joe Petrovitch, but I attended his funeral on Wednesday at Hollywood Memorial Park Cemetery because his wife Barbara worked as a hairdresser at Pickford-Fairbanks Studio where I’ve been an assistant script girl for nearly a year.

  ‘I don’t know Barbara very well,’ I whispered to Mildred Young, my friend in Make-up who was standing beside me in the shade of an oak tree as we waited for mourners to gather at the gravesite. I scanned the crowd. ‘Does she have any kids?’

  Mildred had been hired at the studio just a few months ago, but Make-up and Hair Styling worked hand in glove, so she knew Barbara Petrovitch better than I did. She shook her head. ‘No children, but she has a few relatives who will help her through this. That’s her sister, over there, in the dark purple suit and sunglasses. And that bruiser on her left is her brother.’

  I studied both siblings, looking for family resemblances. The two sisters had the same sturdy build and thick ankles. Their brother was broad-shouldered and muscular, and carried himself with the self-confidence that comes from being bigger and stronger than everyone else. As Barbara soaked her handkerchief, her siblings maintained dry eyes and tight lips. The sister clutched a black handbag in one hand and a single white rose in the other. The brother looked over their heads toward the casket with hard, narrowed eyes that lacked any pretense of grief. Suddenly, as if he sensed my thoughts, he turned his head and met my gaze with hostile eyes. Embarrassed to be caught staring, I looked away.

  ‘Did Joe have any family?’ I murmured.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Mildred. ‘None that Barbara ever mentioned anyway. They’d only been married a few years. A late marriage for both, I believe.’

  Near us stood our employers, Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks, the greatest stars in motion pictures. Not only were they, along with Charlie Chaplin, the best-loved actors in the whole film world, they were the only three with the business savvy and gumption to start up their own studio when everyone said it couldn’t be done. A gust of warm wind lifted Miss Pickford’s black veil, revealing a glimpse of her famous flawless skin, but even with her face obscured, just about anyone would have recognized ‘America’s Sweetheart’ from her honey-gold ringlets and diminutive size. She was several years older than I, but we were so close in height and weight that she’d asked me to stand in for her on more than one occasion. From the back, with my own coppery bob covered by a wig from Barbara Petrovitch’s cupboards, audiences could not tell us apart. Miss Pickford’s husband, the handsome ‘King of Hollywood’ and my boss, turned toward Mildred and me, removed his sunglasses, and flashed us one of his famous grins.

  ‘It was kind of them to give us the time off,’ remarked Mildred.

  Mourners continued to straggle over from cars parked along Santa Monica Boulevard, picking their way through the forest of tombstones, people talking quietly in small groups. The sun blazed in the clear October sky. Not for nothing had film production moved to Hollywood during the previous decade – the weather was perfect for filming almost every day of the year.

  For me, lovely weather was but one of southern California’s charms. Staying in one place for longer than a week ranked high on the list of luxuries I’d never experienced in my life. I’d spent every one of my twenty-six years on stage – vaudeville for the most part, although my mother and I did land a few stints in legitimate theater, and after she died, I strayed into burlesque a couple of times. But no matter if it was legit, burlesque, or vaude, the schedule was chiseled in granite: six days of hard work followed by a Sunday
jump to the next town to start again.

  Once I’d landed my job in Hollywood – thanks to a vaudeville friend, Zeppo Marx, who recommended me to Pickford-Fairbanks – I went hunting for a place to live. Most decent young women would have chosen a boarding house, but I’d had my fill of tawdry boarding houses and cheap hotels managed by matrons who poked their noses where they didn’t belong. I lucked upon an old house shared by four other bachelor girls where I had my own room and the use of the kitchen, and for the first time in my life, I reveled in the luxury of possessions: my very own sheets, my very own blankets, my very own curtains at the window – even my very own rag rug on the floor!

  Mildred nudged me and pointed discretely. Four nuns had arrived, trailed by a priest. The ceremony would soon begin.

  ‘I pity them, having to wear those heavy black costumes,’ I said.

  ‘Spoken like a true performer,’ Mildred teased. ‘I believe “habit” is the word for nuns’ clothing, not “costume”.’ Another make-up artist approached and Mildred waved her over to our side. ‘Hello, Yolanda,’ she said. ‘You know Jessie Beckett, right?’

  ‘Sure do. Hi, Jessie. Geez, everybody’s here. The studio must be empty.’

  Bob from the commissary joined us in time to hear that last remark. ‘No surprise, everyone knows Barbara. She’s been with Pickford-Fairbanks since they started, and she’s a pip. Poor thing. A sad day, no doubt about it.’

  Yolanda sniffed. ‘Barbara’s taking it pretty hard,’ she said, keeping her voice low, ‘and honest Injun, I am sorry for her, but if you ask me, it’s a blessing in disguise. I know you’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead, but I don’t care. That Joe Petrovitch was a mean son of a female dog. Just looking at him gave me the willies. I’m not surprised somebody killed him. I’d of killed him myself if I’d a come to work one more time and seen poor Barbara black and blue and pretending she’d fallen down the stairs. Funny how she wasn’t so clumsy ’til she married that no-good bum.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Bob. ‘She’s still got a cut on her lip from last week, when it was swollen up something awful. You can see it if you get closer.’

  My eyes widened, but I said nothing. I hadn’t been aware of anything like that going on, but my contacts with Barbara had been limited to brief fitting sessions and the occasional errand that took me to her workroom.

  Two switchboard operators made their way toward us. Anybody who works for a big company knows there’s no one like switchboard gals for gossip, and Patsy and Nina were veterans.

  ‘People tried to get her to leave him, but she wouldn’t hear of it,’ said Patsy, picking up on the conversation.

  ‘Once I heard her say Joe really loved her, that he just lost control sometimes,’ said Nina.

  ‘Well, I’m sorry for Barbara’s loss, but I ain’t sorry Joe’s dead,’ said Bob. ‘Beating up on a nice lady like Barbara. He had no call to do that. Have they arrested anyone yet?’

  ‘Not that I heard.’

  ‘I heard they had a suspect—’

  ‘No, that was someone they let go.’

  ‘I heard the fella who did it disappeared into thin air …’

  The conversation sank into speculation. Rumors were passed around like Christmas candy and devoured with the same enthusiasm. Of course, I’d seen the newspaper accounts of the killing, but only a birdbrain believed what was printed in the yellow press. The indisputable truth was that a man had burst into the projection booth of the Lyceum Theater and shot Joe Petrovitch, but that was about all we knew for sure. So I kept my mouth shut and listened to the comments batted back and forth like a shuttlecock across a net.

  ‘I heard the killer shot him just after Joe had finished changing the reel—’

  ‘He wore a red jacket, even though it’s been so warm that no one—’

  ‘The assistant said he shouted something—’

  ‘I know the assistant. He goes to my mother’s church. Well, I never actually met him, but Mom knows him and she said he was an honest person and he told her—’

  ‘The man had a thin mustache and wore eyeglasses and a brown cap.’

  ‘The fella plugged Joe with three shots, boom, boom, boom, point blank. Couldn’t of missed. Then he said, “Don’t move”, and the assistant, well, he was so scared, he was frozen anyway, and couldn’t so much as twitch a muscle—’

  ‘And then he just vanished into thin air.’

  ‘What do you mean, vanished?’ I interrupted, too curious to hold back any longer. A couple of people started to answer, then Nina took center stage.

  ‘Just that he vanished into the dark theater. Right after the shooting stopped, the assistant ran down to the lobby and got somebody to call the police. The film was almost over so they stationed a cop at each exit and waited for the end. Then they watched each person as they left, but the assistant never saw the killer come out.’

  More questions rose to my lips. Had the red jacket been found, discarded somewhere inside the theater? Had the gun been found? Were there other exits? Had anyone searched the water closets? But just then, the priest lifted his hand for quiet. The crowd stilled. The nuns edged closer to the priest as we bowed our heads and began the service with a prayer.

  TWO

  After Joe’s mortal remains were lowered into the grave, Barbara’s sister handed her the rose she’d been carrying, and Barbara dropped it onto the casket with a moan. Her brother put a firm arm around her shoulder and led her away before the gravediggers could start shoveling, saving her from hearing the thud of dirt clumps on the wooden lid of the casket. The priest announced that mourners were welcome to pay their respects to the widow at the Petrovitch home where the ladies of the Blessed Sacrament had prepared refreshments. I hadn’t intended to go, but curiosity called my name. I assured myself that this wasn’t the same curiosity that got me into trouble before when I’d investigated some unusual murders; this time, I wouldn’t get involved. I hadn’t even known Joe Petrovitch. Nonetheless, something about this murder piqued my interest. How could a killer not leave the theater and yet not be discovered among the audience as people exited? How had he slipped out of the grasp of the police, a man in a red coat carrying a gun? How could they have no suspects? It was a mystery, that’s for sure.

  ‘Are you going to Barbara’s house?’ I asked Mildred, thinking to share the cost of a taxi.

  ‘I, well … Do you want to go?’

  Douglas Fairbanks passed by us on his way to his car. Mary Pickford was several steps behind, talking in low tones to someone from the studio. It was as if Douglas had read my mind.

  ‘Do you need a ride to the Petrovitch house, Jessie?’ he asked, walking closer. ‘You could come with Mary and me. Or you, Mildred?’

  I wavered only a second. ‘Thank you very much, I’d like to go.’

  Mildred gave an excuse and politely declined.

  Properly speaking, Douglas was my boss, as he was the one who had hired me almost a year ago, but all of us at Pickford-Fairbanks considered that we worked for the studio rather than for a particular person. Douglas and Mary were the best employers anyone could have in the ruthless film-making business. They worked harder than any of their employees – and we worked damned hard! – but they were fair, and they didn’t flinch at paying top dollar for talent. Mary was fond of saying that we worked with her, not for her, and Douglas treated everyone with respect. At the moment, I was working on Douglas’s latest picture, The Black Pirate, which had recently begun filming.

  The Petrovitches lived in Los Angeles proper, not in Hollywood, but the smooth ride in Douglas’s magnificent Rolls Royce Silver Ghost was over all too soon. Traffic was light and Douglas drove with assurance. He pulled up to the curb in front of a modest bungalow just minutes behind Barbara and her family. We entered the house. A few people were talking to Barbara, who was by now seated in her living room, looking dazed. I held back for privacy’s sake until others had said their piece.

  No sooner did Barbara catch sight of Mary Pickford a
nd Douglas Fairbanks than she stood up and dissolved into fresh tears. ‘Oh, Miss Pickford. I’m … I don’t …’

  Her brother squeezed her hand and spoke the words she could not. ‘My sister is honored that you came today, Miss Pickford, Mr Fairbanks.’

  ‘All of us at the studio grieve with her,’ Miss Pickford replied.

  ‘We’re very sorry for your loss, Barbara,’ Douglas said. Only in moments such as these was anyone likely to see the buoyantly handsome actor without a smile on his lips.

  ‘My name’s Simon Wallace. I’m Barbara’s brother. And this is my wife, Myrtle,’ he added, indicating the woman at his side who was engaged in conversation with an elderly couple. When she noticed who her husband was talking to, she snubbed the pair mid-sentence and turned, star-struck, to gape at Hollywood’s royalty.

  ‘How do you do, Mr Wallace, Mrs Wallace.’ Miss Pickford motioned with one black-gloved hand for me to step forward. ‘This is Jessie Beckett, who also works with Barbara.’

  I shook hands with Simon Wallace. He was a large man, perhaps forty, with the powerful shoulders and rough, strong hands of a manual laborer and the crooked nose of a fighter. One eye had an outward cast, making me want to shift my gaze back and forth between his eyes as I talked. With some effort, I concentrated on the straight eye while I said the things one says at a funeral.

  Miss Pickford spoke again, her voice resonating with compassion. ‘We were all shocked to learn of Mr Petrovitch’s death. I’m so glad Barbara has her family to help her through this difficult time. Do you live in Los Angeles, Mr Wallace?’

  ‘Yes, me and Barbara and our sister Bunny were born and raised right here. That’s Bunny, over there,’ he said, pointing with his thumb. ‘Barbara will be staying with me and Myrtle for a while, so she won’t be alone.’

  Barbara bestowed a fond smile on her brother and found her voice. ‘Simon has always looked after me, ever since I can remember. And Bunny too. I am so blessed … I don’t know what I’d have done without the both of them.’ She sniffed and swallowed hard. ‘And thank you, Miss Pickford, for the beautiful lilies you and Mr Fairbanks sent.’