A Friendly Game of Murder Page 3

  Dorothy leaned toward Doyle. “Don’t worry. This is Aleck’s latest fad. He picks out a new one every few months. We often find that it’s easier to just play along.” She turned to Woollcott. “Aleck, perhaps you could explain the game of Murder to Arthur?”

  “Most certainly,” Woollcott said. “The game is devilishly simple—”

  But before Woollcott could say more, the theatrical voice of Douglas Fairbanks filled the room. “Happy New Year’s Eve, my dear friends—and my new friends!”

  Everyone turned to look. Fairbanks stood at the center of the room with his arms extended like the ringmaster of a circus. Next to him was an attractive, well-dressed woman whom Dorothy recognized.

  Fairbanks continued, using his voice with the power of a loudspeaker. “Allow me to introduce our favored guest—a woman who needs no introduction. The first lady of the Broadway stage and our lady of the evening . . . Lydia Trumbull!”

  The woman next to Fairbanks made a theatrical curtsy.

  “If she’s a lady of the evening,” Harpo Marx said under his breath, “then I’d demand a refund.”

  Lydia Trumbull may have been a young beauty at one point—perhaps a decade ago. And she was beautiful still, but now the actress was more likely to play Lady Macbeth than Juliet Capulet. Yet Lydia Trumbull—with her sleek black hair and frost-blue eyes—was probably no more than thirty (or at least not much more than thirty, Dorothy thought). But in addition to her timeless beauty, Lydia’s age conferred a sense of accomplishment and hard-won wisdom. Then again, Lydia’s flinty glamour also seemed somehow fragile, Dorothy thought, like a pillar of hard black granite that might very easily crack and break under sharp pressure.

  Lydia opened her mouth to speak, but before she could say a word, a voice from the other side of the apartment shouted, “Hey, everybody! Let’s get this party cooking!”

  All eyes turned toward this interloper, and a collective gasp went up from the room. There, at the entrance to Fairbanks’ bedroom, was Bibi Bibelot, naked as the day she was born.

  “Now, that’s a lady of the evening!” Harpo gasped.

  Bibi Bibelot—nude and proud as a peacock—strutted forth. Now no one smirked. No one tittered or chuckled. And no one ignored her. Every eye was on Bibi.

  Dorothy realized that the gorgeous young woman wasn’t entirely naked. Bibi wore the high-heeled shoes she had arrived in. Also, she wore a brilliant, saucy smile to go with her bright blond bobbed hair.

  A crash and a splash came from the front doors. Dorothy saw a young deliveryman standing there in his overalls. His eyes and his mouth were wide-open in amazement. His slack arms held an empty metal washtub. In front of the deliveryman’s feet was a knee-high pile of ice cubes. Bibi gave the deliveryman a wicked wink. The crowd parted as she strolled across the room.

  Dorothy couldn’t help but evaluate the young woman’s naked body—and she found little to criticize. She scrutinized Bibi’s round and high breasts, her flat stomach and especially her long, long legs. Dorothy, a pretty but petite woman, couldn’t staunch a pang of envy.

  At her side, Benchley spoke, “Well, would you look at that. The curtains match the carpet.”

  Ready to snap at him for being so vulgar, Dorothy whirled on him.

  But Benchley, ever the gentleman, had discreetly looked away from the naked form of Bibi, and was genteelly admiring the wall-to-wall carpeting and matching drapes.

  Turning back to the center of the room, Dorothy watched Bibi stroll right past Fairbanks and Lydia Trumbull. Lydia stared daggers at Bibi.

  Then Dorothy saw Dr. Hurst stepping forward from a far corner of the room. His face had turned as white as his hair. His eyes bulged in dismay.

  Dorothy followed Dr. Hurst’s gaze, and as Bibi came closer, Dorothy saw something she somehow hadn’t noticed before. Around her long, elegant neck, Bibi wore the sparkling silver locket that Dr. Hurst had so recently entrusted to Douglas Fairbanks.

  Chapter 3

  Bibi strolled slowly, tantalizingly, across the crowded parlor and toward the bathroom. Dorothy watched Bibi’s pert backside amble away.

  “What an ass,” said Jane Grant, standing next to Dorothy.

  “How do you mean that exactly?” Dorothy asked.

  “I’d like to kick that cute little backside,” Jane said sourly.

  Jane Grant and her friend Ruth Hale were both members of the Lucy Stone League, a women’s rights group that defended a wife’s right to retain her maiden surname as her legal last name. Their husbands—Harold Ross and Heywood Broun—supported them. Or at least they didn’t argue about it in public.

  “That brainless girl,” Ruth said. “What is she trying to pull? Who is she kidding?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Dorothy said. “If I had a body like that, I’d strut it around for everyone to see. Why not? This is a party, after all—a New Year’s Eve party at Doug Fairbanks’ penthouse suite. Maybe someone like Bibi should prance around naked at such an occasion.”

  And if nothing else, Dorothy reasoned, it’ll make a good story to tell to the other members of the Round Table who didn’t arrive before the quarantine.

  Jane shook her head. “Can you believe I helped create that Frankenstein’s monster?”

  Dorothy was surprised. “No, I can’t believe it. How so?”

  “I had to write an article about her a few months ago.”

  Jane Grant was the first and only woman reporter in the New York Times’ city room. She eagerly sought and was usually assigned articles about important women’s issues. But in return for that privilege, she sometimes had to write about far less important topics, Dorothy knew.

  “Typical puff piece,” Jane continued with a shrug. “Small-town girl makes it in the big city. Conquers Broadway with her siren’s voice and one swipe of her glossy red fingernails. That kind of thing.”

  “Ah, and look at what you’ve done.”

  “Well, I can’t take too much credit,” Jane said defensively. “I was just the town crier spreading the news. Bibi had already done all the monster building. She was like that when I found her. She hatched out of the egg that way.”

  Ruth Hale clucked her tongue. “She had a stage mother pushing her, no doubt?”

  “Actually, no,” Jane said. “She had a brother or something somewhere, but no mother behind her. She did make a big deal about ‘a rich benefactor,’ as she called him.”

  “Rich benefactor?” Dorothy asked. “Who is it?”

  “No idea,” Jane said. “Bibi made a big deal about that, too. Had to keep him a secret, or every new Broadway starlet would be after him, she said. Her ‘guardian angel,’ she called him.”

  “Angel, ha!” Ruth clucked her tongue again. “Probably some drooling old sugar daddy.”

  They watched as a parade of people followed Bibi to the bathroom. Dorothy could just barely see through the crowd to make out what was going on. Bibi kicked off her high heels, which skittered across the polished tile floor.

  “Where’s that sinful case of champagne I saw somewhere?” Bibi asked in a sultry voice. She pointed a slender finger at a fat, middle-aged man. “You, baby boy, go get that bubbly. Fill up this tub.” She touched her toe against the elegant, bone-white claw-foot bathtub. The man turned and ran, leaving behind his flabbergasted wife.

  Bibi then pointed her finger at a tall young man. “You, sugar, get a ladle from the kitchen. A big one.” She barely finished speaking before the man turned and scrambled through the crowd.

  The fat man returned with a wooden case of champagne, which held a dozen bottles. He was followed by three more men, each carrying a similar case. In moments, he and the other men had opened the bottles and dumped the champagne into the tub. The tall man returned from the kitchen and handed Bibi a large metal soup ladle.

  She raised it over her h
ead like a naked queen making a royal proclamation. With a wild, wicked smile, she cried, “Everyone, drinks are on me!”

  Then she stepped into the tub and slid into the glistening bath of effervescent wine. The onlookers—mostly men but some women, too—cheered and clapped.

  Bibi luxuriated in the bathtub. She lifted handfuls of the champagne and cascaded it over her naked body. Then she held up the ladle, full to the brim with the sparkling liquid.

  “So, who wants a wee little drink?” Bibi shouted. The partygoers roared, and the crowd surged forward. Dorothy momentarily lost her view.

  Benchley turned to Dorothy. “I think instead I’ll sample what the bar—now unoccupied—has to offer. Would you care for a refill, Mrs. Parker?”

  Dorothy handed him her highball glass, and Benchley moved through the crowd to the sideboard, which was in use as a bar. But it wasn’t completely unoccupied, as Benchley had said. Dr. Hurst stood there. The old man angrily grabbed the nearest bottle and splashed whiskey into a shot glass. He slammed down the bottle, snatched up the shot glass and gulped the drink back with a vengeance.

  Then two large figures dressed all in black brushed by Dorothy and nearly knocked her aside.

  Dorothy turned to look and was surprised to see two heavyset nuns hurrying toward the bathroom with the backs of their black habits and veils flapping behind them. Dorothy couldn’t see their faces, but she could hear their voices.

  “Pardon us, please!” the first one said gruffly, shouldering through the crowd.

  “Heavens above, excuse us!” the second one added.

  The nuns created a stir as they reached the jam-packed door to the bathroom.

  “Oh no, Bibi,” one leering man jeered. “You’re in big trouble now!”

  “You’ve angered the Man Upstairs,” laughed another.

  Dorothy heard Bibi answer in a condescending tone, “This is the penthouse, dummy. Don’t you know what a penthouse is? There is no man upstairs.”

  Dorothy shook her head in dismay. But still her curiosity took over, so she moved closer to the bathroom to get a better look.

  “Young lady!” The first nun squeezed into the bathroom and waved a nervous hand at Bibi. “Step out of that infernal bathtub right this very moment.”

  “Bless you, child,” the second nun pleaded. “But please get out and cover up your shame.”

  Dorothy couldn’t resist. Before she could stop herself, she called out, “Don’t worry yourselves, sisters. That girl has no shame.”

  Angry eyes—including the nuns’—turned in Dorothy’s direction. Dorothy didn’t like the nuns looking at her like that—judging her, disdaining her. She was about to let another insult fly at them, but they turned away at the sound of Dr. Hurst’s angry voice.

  “Stop there!” Dr. Hurst charged forward. “Young lady, this is intolerable! Get out of there this instant.”

  A leering man stood in Dr. Hurst’s way. “Come on, gramps. Don’t ruin the party for the rest of us.”

  Dr. Hurst gave him a superior look. “I’m a doctor.” Then to Bibi he called out, “Get out of that bathtub immediately, I insist.”

  Another man now blocked Dr. Hurst’s way. “Leave the gal alone, old-timer. We just want to have a good time here. What’s the matter with that?”

  Dr. Hurst sputtered, trying in his outrage to form a coherent sentence. “It’s—it’s unsanitary, that’s what.” He grabbed the man’s drink and threw it to the ground. The glass shattered at the man’s feet.

  “Why, you—!” the man growled, ready to throw a punch.

  The second nun grabbed the man’s arm. “Stop this, please. The doctor is right. And it’s not only unsanitary, it’s sinful. You should all be ashamed.”

  The crowd in and around the bathroom was stirring into a mob scene, ready to break out into a riot, Dorothy thought.

  And where the hell is Benchley with my drink? she wondered, looking around the room.

  From the center of the parlor, Doug Fairbanks squared his shoulders and prepared to intervene. Next to him, Lydia Trumbull seemed on the verge of tears as well as rage. She had clearly been humiliated that Bibi—a younger, “hotter” actress—had stolen her spotlight. This was supposed to have been Lydia’s night, after all.

  Several paces behind Lydia stood Mary. She too had a troubled look, anxiety mixed with despair, on her cherubic face. Could this be simply the hostess’ reaction to a party going quickly out of control? Dorothy didn’t think so. Something else was worrying Mary.

  Bibi shouted from the tub, “Okay, you gorillas, you can stop all that monkey business! Let the sweet old boy in. I’ll lend him an ear—and anything else he wants.”

  Dorothy couldn’t imagine anyone thinking of Dr. Hurst as a “sweet old boy.” But then she remembered what that conniving Bibi had said about him: He must be loaded!

  Like snarling guard dogs pulled by their leashes, the two men at the door begrudgingly stepped back and let Dr. Hurst enter the bathroom. The nuns moved aside as well.

  “Well, hello there,” Bibi trilled playfully. “Remember me from the elevator?” Then her voice dropped into a naughty tone. “Are you here to give me an examination, Doctor? Or perhaps I’m due for a shot?” Then she held up the liquor-filled ladle. “Or maybe you’d like a shot? How about I make it a double?”

  Dr. Hurst turned to the few onlookers standing in the bathroom. “Get out,” he growled, barely looking at them. “Now.”

  The partygoers grumbled and filed out of the room. The nuns, however, wouldn’t leave so easily. They insisted they should stay in the room as chaperones for the sake of Bibi’s modesty and personal safety.

  “You leave the modesty to me, sisters,” Bibi said, happily waving them out. Dr. Hurst put his narrow shoulder against the door and used it to push the stout nuns back into the parlor. The nuns stood looking at the closed door.

  Benchley finally returned and handed Dorothy a half-full glass of scotch.

  “Whatever is he doing in there?” he asked, indicating the bathroom door.

  “Joining her in a drink, perhaps,” she said, clinking glasses with Benchley and taking a sip of her scotch.

  In a few moments, though, shouting could be heard from inside the bathroom. The words were indistinct, but the tones were clear. It was Dr. Hurst’s voice yelling some kind of order or demand, followed by Bibi’s petulant, derisive refusal.

  The first nun hurried back to the door and grabbed the knob. “It’s locked. Somebody call the manager!”

  Doug Fairbanks sauntered over to the older nun. “There’s no need to get upset, my dear sister. We have a key around here somewhere. Just give me a moment to find it.” He called across the crowded room to his wife. “Mary, darling, do you know where the bathroom key is?”

  Mary muttered something about a kitchen drawer, then turned and stormed into her bedroom. Fairbanks followed after her with a puzzled look on his face.

  “Somebody should do something,” Dorothy said, mostly to herself. She scanned the room for Arthur Conan Doyle. Eventually she spotted him—cornered by old Mrs. Volney, who was probably needling him with medical questions and likely informing him in detail of her many complaints. Mrs. Volney lived down the hall from Dorothy, and Dorothy studiously avoided the prickly old spinster.

  “Just in time,” she said to Benchley. “The poor dear is being hounded—hounded by old Lady Baskerville.”

  Dorothy met Doyle’s eyes and beckoned him over. Doyle quickly excused himself from Mrs. Volney and made his way to Dorothy and Benchley.

  “Ah,” Doyle said politely, though he was clearly relieved to be rid of the lady. “What tenacity your fellow Americans have, even the older Americans. Such determination. It’s almost enough to try a man’s patience.”

  Dorothy nodded. She understood perfectly. “There’s something else
we’d like you to try instead.”

  “At your service, miss.” Doyle nodded and made a courtly, old-fashioned little bow. “You know, we never were properly introduced.”

  Miss! What a terrific old man. She hated to correct him.

  “It’s Mrs., actually,” she said. “Mrs. Parker. And this is Mr. Benchley, if we want to put a label on everything.”

  “Lovely to make your acquaintance properly, Mrs. Parker and Mr. Benchley. Now, what is it that I can do for you?”

  “Do you hear that yelling and screaming coming from yonder bathroom?” she asked. “That’s your pal Dr. Hurst. Do you think you might be able to settle him down and open up that door before he bursts a blood vessel—or bursts that naked girl’s noggin?”

  “Oh dear, now I hear it,” Doyle said, his gregarious expression falling. “I’m a little hard of hearing in this ear. But never mind that. I’ll go and have a sharp word with my old friend Quentin. He knows I won’t stand for such unmanly behavior. That’s no way to talk to a lady.”

  “Don’t worry,” Dorothy muttered. “That gal’s no lady.”

  Doyle didn’t seem to hear her. He had already lowered his brow and stalked off toward the bathroom. But before he reached the door, it suddenly swung open, and Dr. Hurst came hurrying out with one hand shoved inside his jacket pocket. He darted right past Doyle, who spun around after him.

  “Quentin, old boy!” Doyle exclaimed. “What’s the meaning of this?”

  Dr. Hurst ignored him and made a straight line to the bar, where he again grabbed the whiskey bottle. Dorothy thought she saw a fierce, triumphant smirk on the old man’s face.

  What was that all about? Dorothy glanced toward the bathroom. She could see that Bibi was still in the tub and kicking up a little sparkling splash with one long, lovely leg.

  “All’s well, everybody,” Bibi trilled, waving the ladle. “Anyone thinkie you need a little drinkie?”

  The nearby partygoers jumped at this suggestion. They swarmed back into the bathroom and clamored for another sip poured from Bibi’s ladle. Meanwhile, the two nuns tried to enter the crowded room and continued to urge Bibi to get out of the tub.