Design for Dying

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Authors: Renee Patrick
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Any more than the usual number—zero—and I’d declare victory.
    The early bird may catch the worm, but she can forget about finding a seat on the streetcar. The man in front of me couldn’t be bothered to rise and let a lady take the weight off. He was lost in the Register ’s morning edition. Glancing down, I found myself staring into Ruby’s eyes.
    ALLEY ANGEL IDENTIFIED , the headline blared. RUBY CARROLL WAS HOLLYWOOD HOPEFUL . She’d finally made the front page.
    Which disappeared when the man folded his paper to get at the boxing column. Two blocks later he started for the exit.
    â€œPardon me,” I said. “Are you done with that paper?”
    â€œI could be, for a smile.”
    Despite the ungodly hour I gave him his money’s worth, teeth included at no extra charge.
    â€œTake it and maybe I’ll see you again sometime.” He winked, which I credited to Edith’s fashion tip.
    Snagging his seat I opened the paper for a good look at the page one photo. Ruby knelt on a towel at the beach in a halter-top bathing suit, blond hair blowing away from her freshly scrubbed face. She looked like an advertisement for California health and beauty.
    I recognized Ruby’s swimsuit—the salesgirl had called it poppy, Ruby insisted it was orange—and the towel, shanghaied from Mrs. Lindros’s linen closet. I also knew the girl on Ruby’s left, though the only part of her remaining in the cropped photograph was her knee. It was Vi.
    Making the hand on the towel to Ruby’s right mine.
    Poor, trusting Vi. She thought she’d given the photo of our beach jaunt to a detective, but it had been a reporter with a slick line.
    Aside from the disclosure of Ruby’s name and the “exclusive” photo, the Register ’s story was a hash of old news, spiced up with idle speculation about the Alley Angel’s morals. The rest of the ride to Tremayne’s seemed longer than usual.
    *   *   *
    MR. VALENTINE STOOD at the entrance to Ladies’ Wear, his goldenrod necktie so bright I was tempted to slip my sunglasses on again. “Miss Frost. Good to have you back after your ordeal.”
    â€œI’m sorry for any inconvenience.”
    â€œThe way those detectives questioned you, I thought you were a suspect.” He forced an amiable chuckle. So did I.
    Next stop hat department, Mr. Valentine nipping at my heels like a terrier. “I read the story in this morning’s paper,” he said solicitously. “That was your friend, the blond girl? Tragic, just tragic. I thought Lorna put it beautifully in her column. Felled by ‘the traps and snares of moviedom.’” He cupped his hand as he spoke as if clutching Yorick’s skull.
    â€œShe certainly has a way with words.” Ruby had always hated Lorna Whitcomb, branding her a “withered-face crab who bombed out as a chorus girl.”
    I started primping the hat displays, grooming every feather like a vain parakeet. Still Mr. Valentine lingered, reluctant to leave his flesh and blood link to the big news story of the day. He might have tarried all morning if the store’s assistant manager hadn’t come to retrieve him. He took his leave for Tremayne’s loftier climes. Abruptly, he turned back. “By the way, that’s a lovely outfit. Very smart.”
    Two compliments. Something else to mention to Edith now that I had a moment to call her.
    *   *   *
    HEARING EDITH’S UNMISTAKABLE crisp tone brought my mother’s brooch to mind, making me absurdly emotional all over again.
    â€œLillian, a pleasure to hear from you. I hope you’re well.”
    â€œI’m wonderful, thanks to you.”
    â€œI’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
    â€œI’m sure you do. Consider me in your debt forever.”
    â€œLet’s say I’m happy to help a fellow working girl and leave it at

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