It was hard for Gwendolyn not to stare at the blonde sitting next to her in the starched white suit. She tried to train her eyes on the cab driver’s head as he negotiated the hairpin curves in the woody folds above Beverly Hills. In a city teeming with beauty, Gwendolyn was used to encountering exquisite women of all kinds, but this creature was something else again.
Lana Turner opened her alligator skin purse and pulled out a compact to study her reflection. “I can’t believe how nervous I am,” she muttered.
“Haven’t you and Howard been dating?” Gwendolyn was glad for an excuse to look right at her. That flawless skin! And I always thought it was just good lighting.
Lana snapped the compact shut. “We were, thanks to Miss Massey.”
Kathryn turned around in the cab’s front seat. “Guilty as charged.”
She’d kept her promise to Howard Hughes and teed up a date between the two of them. Things started cooking quickly, and news of the romance circulated at Ciro’s and the Mocambo until the day Howard crashed his plane. He’d refused all visitors until he called Lana a few days ago. Scared of what state she might find him in, she asked Kathryn to go with her, and even to recruit a friend as backup.
Gwendolyn was still working her way through her list of cross-dressing clients—there were still five outfits she hadn’t even started—so she could scarcely afford to take a whole Sunday afternoon off. On the other hand, what fool would pass up an opportunity to meet Lana Turner, Howard Hughes, and Cary Grant?
The cab pulled up in front of an eight-foot wrought iron gate that stretched between columns of creamy concrete. Kathryn paid the driver and the three women got out of the taxi and lined up across Cary Grant’s driveway.
“Why is he recuperating here?” Gwendolyn asked.
“They’re very good friends,” Lana said. “Howard’s always taking Cary up in one of his planes. They have lunch in San Francisco, or fly over the Grand Canyon. I guess he didn’t want to be alone.” She fanned herself with her purse and adjusted a wide-brimmed sunhat, white as her suit. “What if he’s banged up real bad?”
The horrific shots of Howard’s mangled aircraft made all the papers and newsreels. How anybody survived was beyond Gwendolyn’s comprehension. Had Leilah and Clem O’Roarke lived one house over, they’d be waiting for the Hughes Aircraft Company to build them a new home.
“If he was still that bad, I doubt he’d have asked to see you,” Gwendolyn pointed out.
The fanning stopped.
“If it’s really too awful to bear,” Kathryn said, “tell him your Aunt Cora is leaving for the East Coast tomorrow and you promised to visit with her.”
Lana let out a smirk. Cora was the role in The Postman Always Rings Twice that made Lana an even bigger star. “I like that,” she said, nodding. “Oh and girls, thanks for coming. I’ve never been great around doctors and hospitals. Gives me the heebie-jeebies.”
She pressed the intercom button built into the pillar and identified herself to the haughty voice that answered. A long buzz sounded and the gate glided to the left.
* * *
Cary Grant’s house was every bit as tasteful as Gwendolyn expected. Lots of teak and mahogany, drapes in warm maple brown, thick carpets in hunter green, bookshelves neatly stocked and spotlessly dusted. But there was no evidence that Grant was at home, leaving her more than mildly disappointed.
At the rear of the house, a uniformed butler drew open a glass door that led to a spacious back patio. Beyond the glazed terracotta tile, an expanse of lawn half the size of a football field stretched, and to the left stood a guesthouse bigger than three Garden of Allah bungalows combined. A courtyard shaded by jasmine jutted out into the grass. Underneath it, Howard Hughes reclined on a chaise lounge angled to take in the panoramic view of the Pacific. A magazine was in his lap, but he seemed to be asleep.
The butler asked them to wait. He approached Hughes and tapped him on the shoulder. Hughes looked up and smiled, then beckoned the women to come join him.
Gwendolyn was relieved to see that Hughes wasn’t nearly the appalling mess Lana had feared. Red jagged scars crisscrossed his face, but they looked like they’d fade with time and the help of a skilled plastic surgeon. While his skin was puffy and blotched in places, the bruising was mild, and there was no sign of burns. His brooding eyes were sharp and clear. He accepted Lana’s kiss and Kathryn’s handshake, and nodded politely when Kathryn introduced Gwendolyn.
“Have a seat,” he told them. “I’ve sent my man to fix us some coffee.”
The women sat down in the three patio chairs that were discreetly arranged on the side of his good ear. Kathryn and Gwendolyn let Lana take the seat closest to him.
“Why, Howie,” Lana exclaimed a little too brightly, “don’t you look wonderful?”
“I don’t know that ‘wonderful’ is quite the word I’d use.” He kept his eyes on Gwendolyn. “But I appreciate you saying so.”
“All I had to go by was the papers and newsreel footage.” She laid what struck Gwendolyn as being a territorial hand on Hughes’ arm, but he recoiled so she pulled it away. “It’s a wonder you survived at all.”
“Things look different from this side of the bed. Thank you for coming. I’ve been a mite short on company lately.”
From the nascent pout starting to form on Lana’s mouth, Gwendolyn could see she wasn’t very happy that her banged-up beau was focusing on someone else.
“I’m sure Mr. Grant hasn’t left you alone.” Gwendolyn made a show of looking at Lana. “Don’t you think, Lana?”
The man glanced Lana’s way, but only for a few seconds. “I don’t know what I would’ve done without his support. But there comes a time when a guy needs companionship of the tender kind.”
Lana shifted in her seat so that Hughes could see her more clearly without having to twist his neck at too great an angle. “When I got your call,” she said, “I took it as a sign that your recovery was on its way. I can see now that it is. You’re not in the most terrible pain, I hope?”
His eyes lingered on Gwendolyn. “So you’re Gwendolyn Brick.” She smiled but didn’t know what to make of his comment. Hughes couldn’t see the glare blooming on Lana’s face. Or he was ignoring it. “I knew Linc pretty well,” he said.
“Is that right?” Please look at Lana. Pay her some attention. I didn’t come here to distract you from her.
“Linc and his head tailor used to make house calls.” He pulled his shoulders back, flinching from the pain. “Whenever I needed a new suit or tux, they’d come over, loaded up with tape measures and cloth samples.”
“He never mentioned that to me.”
“Glad to hear it,” Hughes said. “I insisted on full privacy—he was the only bespoke tailor who didn’t go running to the tabloids and gossip columns.”
He flickered a sardonic eye toward Kathryn, who crossed her heart and held up her hand like a Girl Scout. “Even if he had,” she said, “I’d hardly consider it newsworthy. Especially with all the other sorts of things you get up to. Skywriting, for instance?”
Earlier that spring, Hughes hired a biplane to fly over Los Angeles and spell “THE OUTLAW” and draw two giant circles with dots in the center. He wanted Jane Russell’s breasts back in the news, and for the days that followed, he achieved exactly that.
Hughes smiled, but it didn’t last long. He let out a low groan.
“Howie, darling!” Lana exclaimed. “Are you all right? Can I make you more comfortable? How about some painkillers? Where are they? Shall I get—what’s the butler’s name? Can we get him to fetch you some?” She looked up. “Gwendolyn, how about you scoot inside and see what you can find?”
Gwendolyn was grateful to relinquish Hughes’ focus. She stood up, but Hughes waved her down onto her patio chair.
“Stop fussing,” he told Lana. “He’ll be out with the coffee any minute. And anyway, I took my last fistful less than an hour ago; it’ll be a while before I can have any more.”
He looked at Gwendolyn again. She expected a lascivious gleam, but he seemed to be studying her with objective, almost scientific detachment. “Linc was always the gentleman,” he said. “A real class act. I was surprised to hear of his disappearance.”
Kathryn let out an involuntary snort. “You and the rest of the world.”
“You know where he went?”
Gwendolyn hesitated long enough to be rescued by the butler’s arrival with a large sterling silver tray loaded with a coffee pot, cups and saucers, and a plate of macaroons. Lana asked him to set it down on the table next to Hughes’ chaise lounge and took it on herself to play hostess.
As they all sat back, Hughes said, “I don’t suppose he went to Mexico?”
Gwendolyn and Kathryn exchanged looks.
“Why do you say that?” Kathryn asked lightly.
“The last time he came to see me, his head tailor was out with the croup, and he showed up with a replacement. A distinguished looking chap, clipped moustache, gray at the temples. Linc explained he came from down south of the border and no hablo inglés. I was impressed with how good Linc’s Spanish was; his accent was impeccable. So when I heard he’d vanished and nobody knew where to find him, my first thought was, Isn’t anybody looking in Mexico?”
“I went to Mexico once,” Lana announced. “A place called Ensenada. We stayed at the Hotel Riviera del Pacífico. Every chance they got, the staff told us it’s where the margarita was invented, on account of that was the name of the owner. I don’t know if that’s true or not, but I remember thinking their margaritas were the best thing about the place.”
Hughes waited for Lana to finish her monologue. “Have you thought about looking for him there?” He must have seen the hesitation on Gwendolyn’s face because he added, “Or should I not assume that you care?”
Lana crossed her arms and sat back with a huffy sigh.
“I do care,” Gwendolyn said. Linc had been on her mind more and more since Oliver had heard from his missionary friend. “In fact, I think I might know where he is.”
“Oh?”
“A town called Mazatlán. It’s on the—”
“West coast, about halfway down. Been there a bunch of times.”
“We hear it’s a devil of a place to get to,” Kathryn said.
“Not if you fly,” Hughes replied, as though he was wondering why it was so necessary to state the obvious. “I have some property in Guadalajara, so I often stop at Mazatlán to refuel.”
Gwendolyn eyed Kathryn and watched her friend subtly tilt her head. If you want to know what happened to Linc, this might be your only chance.
Hughes fell back on his lounge, suddenly looking gaunt and fragile. “I could fly you down sometime.”
Lana let out an exasperated “Oh!” She strode out onto the plush lawn and headed for the oval pool at the end.
“That’s very kind,” Gwendolyn said, “but I can’t imagine you’ll be taking to the skies any time soon.”
“Perhaps not,” he said grimly.
“Honestly!” Kathryn asked. “How many times can you tempt the devil?”
“I’m an aviator. Flying is what I do. This last crash was a bad one, I’ll admit, but it certainly won’t prevent me from going back up the first chance I get.” He eyed Gwendolyn. “You’re at the Garden of Allah, right?”
Gwendolyn nodded slowly.
Mazatlán seemed so very far away and so impenetrably inaccessible that Gwendolyn had all but put out of her mind the possibility she could ever get there. So she was surprised to find how thrilled she felt at even the vaguest prospect that she might see Linc again. Don’t get your hopes up, she told herself, looking at Hughes’ shattered body with a more detached eye. It’s going to be a very long time—if ever—before that man can even cross the yard unassisted, let alone fly an aircraft down to Mexico and back.
“Think about it,” Hughes said.
“I will,” Gwendolyn promised. “Meanwhile, perhaps Kathryn and I should take our leave.” She eyed Lana Turner’s lone silhouette by the pool. “I believe you have an ego to soothe.”