Callie Rampton’s hobby shop occupied the front of a modest white bungalow at the edge of Milwaukie’s downtown. Many Portlanders ignored the suburb directly to its south, not out of snobbery, but simply because they forgot about it. To them, Milwaukie signaled grandma-like houses festooned with petunias, and a high school turning out classes of insurance agents and dental assistants.
Until now, Joanna’s sole exposure to Milwaukie had taken place in a church parking lot. A woman had called Tallulah’s Closet saying she had an old suit of her mother’s, and if Joanna wanted it, she’d better come and get it. Joanna had had to resist gasping with joy when she saw the suit. It was by Fred A. Block, and brass studs ornamented the jacket, from the broad 1940s-style shoulders to its narrow waist. It was in mint condition and begged for seamed stockings and a veiled hat.
After granting Joanna a thirty-second peek, the woman had zipped the wardrobe bag closed. “I won’t take less than fifty dollars,” she’d demanded.
Joanna had handed her the cash with one hand and taken the suit with the other. Fred A. Block was a collector’s dream label, and his suits were nearly impossible to find. Within the week, she’d sold it for nine hundred dollars.
After a few wrong turns, Joanna at last pulled into the hobby shop’s driveway. The sign propped in what used to be the living room’s front window said, “Open.”
“Welcome to Stamp Gurlz.” An older woman cut on the lines of a zaftig Marilyn Monroe stood behind the counter with a pair of scissors in her hands. She wore stark black glasses with circular lenses. “May I help you?”
Shelves stuffed with rubber stamps lined the room. The stamps bore patterns of everything from kittens and roadsters to high-heeled shoes and even a vintage girdle. A table on one side held a rainbow of inkpads. On the back counter, a television played on mute.
“I’m looking for Callie Rampton.”
“Not rubber stamps?”
“No. Although they’re lovely.” She stepped forward. “I have a shop, too, but I sell vintage clothing.”
“Retail’s tough. Thank goodness for the Internet, or I’d have been out of business a long time ago. Those Nebraskan ladies like their rubber stamps.”
The woman’s voice had warmed. Joanna relaxed a bit. “I still haven’t ventured online for sales. I should, though.”
The woman set down her scissors and gave Joanna a once-over. “I’m Callie. Autograph hunter? I bet you’re a film buff.”
“No. That is, I do like old movies, and Bradley Stroden told me you’re an actress. But I’m not here about that. I’m here about Mr. Stroden, actually.”
“No kidding. Poor man. I had to read his obit three times over. I just couldn’t believe it.” Callie Rampton came around the counter. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Joanna Hayworth.”
The older woman’s grip was warm and friendly. “Have a seat, there on the sofa.”
In the room’s corner, partially hidden by the counter but with a view of the door, were two sections of an old ivory sectional sofa with silver thread running through the upholstery. They faced each other over a narrow coffee table piled with craft magazines.
“I love your glasses. Edith Head had glasses like that, didn’t she?” Joanna said.
“Had several pairs. In fact, this is one of them. I begged her for them before I left Hollywood, and she gave me one of her old pairs.”
“No kidding.” The same glasses that had sat on Edith Head’s nose. Joanna longed to touch them.
“You want to try them on, don’t you?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t dare ask—”
“Here.” Callie slipped them off her face. “Everyone does. Go ahead and put them on.”
Slowly, Joanna ran a finger over the frame’s curves. She lifted the flap on her purse. “Let me find my compact. I’ve got to see this.”
“I’d give you a mirror, but you’re not going to be able to make anything out.”
Open compact in hand, Joanna slid the glasses over her ears. She opened her eyes to look through the same frames Head might have looked through when she designed the costumes for To Catch a Thief. Callie was right, though. Her reflection was a blur. Joanna looked around the room. She could tell it was daylight, but that was about all. The couch’s fuzzy blob of ivory came into focus as she took off the glasses.
“Told you. Two astigmatisms and a strong prescription will do that.” Callie nudged the glasses up her nose with the back of a knuckle. “I haven’t heard Bradley mention you. Are you one of his friends from Fuller’s?”
“The diner? No, I’m afraid I was with Mr. Stroden when he collapsed. The police think it was murder.”
“Murder!” Callie gasped. “Are you sure? I didn’t see it in the papers.”
Joanna nodded. “I’m sorry to tell you this way. I’m sure the news will come out soon.”
“Murder,” she repeated. “Who would kill Bradley?”
“The police don’t know yet.”
“I have a good security system and a Smith and Wesson back-up, but you can’t be too careful.” Once again, Rampton looked her over, pausing to examine Joanna’s stack of Bakelite bangles. “Why are you here, anyway? Not just to tell me how Bradley died?”
“I feel” —Joanna pondered a moment— “responsible.” And curious. “He was working on his memoir when he died. I wondered if he might have been sitting on stories people didn’t want to get out. I thought you might have an idea.”
“I knew Bradley, you’re right. We worked together, oh, jeez, at least sixty years ago.”
Which put Rampton in her late seventies or early eighties. She was no blue-haired granny, but platinum-haired. With red lips and a best-friend smile in the Joan Blondell mold.
“With Edith Head,” Joanna said.
“Oh, Edie never dressed me. She stuck with the stars. No, her assistants dealt with the riffraff like me.” She absently stacked a few magazines, lining up their edges. “Murder, huh? You think he was killed for something he knew? Bradley got around, it’s true, but he never blabbed.”
“I spent only half an hour with him. But he did mention one situation in particular. It’s where your name came up.” She looked Rampton in the eyes. “Starlit Wonder.”
The actress’s face froze before melting into a cheerful smile. As she opened her mouth to speak, her cell phone rang from across the room. She rose to look at its screen, tapped it once, and set it down. “Starlit Wonder,” Rampton repeated. Her gaze sharpened. “You’re in the vintage clothing business, huh?”
“Yes. That’s why I was at his house. Mr. Stroden had some dresses to sell.”
“Do you use rubber stamps?”
“No.” Somehow the conversation had gone off track. “But Stroden—”
“Rubber stamps could really enhance your brand, you know.” Callie rose from the couch and went to a nearby shelf. “Take this one, for instance. It’s from an old Japanese dressmaker’s manual.”
The stamp showed a woman’s torso with gridlines indicating where to measure. “That’s nice, but—”
“You could use it to stamp bags or notes. This one would be good, too. And this.”
Joanna turned two more stamps in her hand. One showed a woman’s curler-topped head. The other was of a round-toed 1930s pump. “These are great.”
“I could customize a stamp for you, too. Maybe something with the name of your shop.”
Joanna set the stamps firmly on the table. “Getting back to Starlit Wonder. Can you think of any reason the film would be scandalous?”
Callie avoided her gaze. “I only played a minor role. The heroine’s best friend.”
“Why wasn’t the film ever released?”
“Could have been for lots of reasons. It happened sometimes. It was a long time ago.”
This time Joanna kept her mouth shut and stared. Callie would be forced to speak eventually.
“Okay, the producer was a bit of a horndog.”
“What?”
Callie sighed. “You asked about controversy. The producer—David Sipriano was his name, we called him Big Sip—hit on all the girls. We just shrugged it off.”
“That couldn’t have been easy. It could cost you roles, right?” The Hollywood casting couch was legendary.
“Not so much that. The directors were worse, and, really, Sip was a good guy. No, we were all afraid of his wife. She caught one girl I knew.” Callie turned toward the window. Sun illuminated the laugh lines around her eyes. “Sip and the girl took the ferry to Catalina for the day, and somehow Sip’s wife got wind of it. She chartered a boat and nearly drowned the poor girl. Spent the rest of her career painting sets.” Callie returned her gaze to Joanna. “Sip was terrified his wife would find out about his dalliances, and so were we. His wife had been an actress, too, back in the day. She knew her husband’s predilections.”
“Is that something this producer would be desperate to protect? I mean, if Bradley Stroden was planning to reveal it in his memoir?”
“No. I don’t see it. It was so long ago, and it was public knowledge.” She shook her head to emphasize the point. “No.” Callie reached to her side and pulled down a rubber stamp of a snap-top alligator bag. “You might want this one, too.”
“Why would a producer’s affairs lead to a movie being pulled?”
Callie shrugged. “Don’t know. You asked if there was any controversy about Starlit Wonder, and that’s all I could think of.” She set the stamp with the rest of the pile near Joanna.
Callie’s tone made it clear she was finished with this line of questioning, but Joanna pressed on. Heck, she’d driven all the way out here, and she wasn’t going home with a nine-hundred-dollar suit this time. “Did you see Mr. Stroden much over the years?”
“Bradley? Oh, sure. A few of us get together from time to time to talk about the old days. We go to the bar at the Benson Hotel or to Fuller’s. Not as often as we used to, and, of course, there are fewer of us now.” Her smile dimmed. “I’ll miss him. Bradley. Murder. I still can’t believe it.”
Joanna pictured the potted palms in the old hotel’s lobby and the leather-padded benches lining the bar. “That sounds nice. I didn’t know that many Hollywood types had settled here.”
“There are a few of us, besides Bradley and his sister.”
“I read about the sister in the obituary, but I didn’t know she lived in town.”
“Sure. She used to be in Hollywood, too. An actress. Went by the name of Margay. You didn’t meet her at Bradley’s?” Callie started bundling the rubber stamps she’d set aside for Joanna as if the sale were a done deal.
Joanna shook her head. “Just his secretary and his housekeeper.”
“Did the housekeeper have long white hair in ringlets?”
She nodded.
“That was Mary Pat. Margay. She’s his sister.”