After Rita and I shook her hand, I started to say, “Well. Bess, we’re here to see-”
Rita jumped in: “We’re attorneys investigating a murder case.” She gave Mrs. Wardley her business card. “We have reason to believe one of your residents, a Mr. Francis Q. Jerome, has information pertaining to the case. Could you please ring his cottage and let him know we’d like to meet with him?”
Mrs. Wardley looked at Rita, her card, and without saying a word she picked up the phone, dialed a number, and spoke in a quiet voice, then looked up at us. “He wants to talk to one of you.”
Rita and I both reached out for the phone, but my arm was longer. “Mr. Jerome, my name is Jimmy O’Brien. My associate and I drove all the way out here to speak with you.”
“Sorry, I don’t talk to lawyers. Had too many damn lawyers in my life, thieving bastards. I’ve been married five times, you know. But you can contact my agent, Warren Cowan at Rogers Cowan, Beverly Hills. What’s this all about anyway?”
“Sue Harvey.”
“I’ll meet you in the dining room in ten minutes. Bess will take you there.”
We walked a short distance and entered a large airy room with high ceilings. Light came in from windows high in a clerestory wall. Bess went back to her tasks in the lobby. We waited for Jerome, sitting in pastel-colored Naugahyde chairs at one of the many tables scattered around the room. It was past lunchtime, but still about a dozen people sat at their tables, some in small groups, probably gossiping about “The Business.”
“Isn’t that a movie star over there, Jimmy?” Rita asked, nodding in the direction of a woman sitting alone at a table a few feet away.
Without being obvious, I shifted in my seat to get a better look. “Yeah, it sure is. That’s Mary Astor!” Astor played the temptress, Brigid O’Shaughnessy in one of my favorite detective movies, which was shown continually on the Late Late Show: The Maltese Falcon. I must’ve seen it a thousand times.
I smiled and nodded at her when she noticed me staring. She smiled back and continued eating her meal, taking small bites. She was a knockout in her movies made back in the forties. She had a certain sexual allure that’s hard to describe. Today, in real life, she still looked terrific-older sure, but still beautiful.
I turned to Rita. “How’d you recognize her? She was way before your time.”
“I watch film noir on TV, too. I wonder how old she is.”
“Ageless,” I answered, taking another quick glance at the woman whose advances Humphrey Bogart-as Sam Spade-rebuffed in the name of justice. “I hope they don't hang you, precious, by that sweet neck. Yes, angel, I'm gonna send you over,” I said softly in my best Bogey imitation.
“What’d you say, Jimmy?”
I did that Bogart thing with my mouth. “If you're a good girl, you'll be out in twenty years. I'll be waiting for you. If they hang you, I'll always remember you.”
Rita tapped my arm. “Cut it out, Jimmy.” She laughed.
We stood when Francis Q. Jerome rolled up to the table in a chrome wheelchair.
“I don’t really need this damn chair, you know. But what the hell, keeps the staff happy when I use it. Sit down. I’m Francis Jerome, now what’s this all about?”
Without waiting for an answer, he glanced around the room. “Hey, can we get a little service over here?” he said to one of the attendants, snapping his fingers. “I’ve been coming here to Chasen’s for years. Where’s Dave? He knows how I like my martinis.”
Francis Q. Jerome still had the air of a movie star. He wore a blue blazer with a scarf tied loosely about his neck. A red carnation was planted in his lapel and a sliver of white linen peeked out from his vest pocket. But the years had been hard. His hair was thin and what was left had turned an ashen grey. Liver spots dotted his wrinkled face, but it was the spider web-like veins covering his nose that exhibited a past penchant for alcohol. His once penetrating eyes were now dull and dark.
An attendant, dressed in white, more like a nurse than a waitress, came to our table. “Good afternoon, Mr. Jerome. Now remember, this isn’t Chasen’s. You’re in the dining room at the Country Home.”
“I know that, goddamn it. Just bring me some goddamn coffee.”
The nurse looked at Rita and me and smiled. Can I bring you people something, as well?”
“Thank you. Coffee would be fine,” I said. Rita seconded that.
Jerome maneuvered his chair closer to the table and studied our faces. “Okay, little lady,” he said to Rita, “I suppose you want my autograph.”
“That would be nice, Mr. Jerome.” Rita flashed one of her world-class smiles. She’d done her homework, and proceeded to soften up the old guy. “I’ve never met an Academy Award nominee before.”
“Yeah, but that was a long time ago, my dear. That and a dime will get me a cup of coffee, today.” He scribbled his name with a flourish on a paper napkin and handed it to Rita.
“Before we get started could you tell us a little about your life as a movie star? You’re such a great actor, and I think I’ve seen most of your movies.”
I thought Rita was pouring it on a little thick, but he seemed to be eating it up.
Jerome winked at her. The old bastard was actually flirting. “Of course, sweetheart.” His face seemed to brighten. “I was born in Connecticut into a privileged class. My old man owned a big industrial corporation, chemicals. After college, he wanted me to join the family business, but I said no. I held my ground. I wanted to be an actor, goddamn it. I stood up to him. Yes, I did.”
He stopped talking and just glanced around the room.
“Then what happened?” Rita asked.
“What did you say, my dear?”
“You wanted to be an actor and not go into the family business.”
“Good thing I didn’t stay with the company. I’d have been a businessman, hell’s bells!”
“What about your acting career?” Rita asked.
“Oh, yes. Ah, what were we talking about?”
“Acting.”
“Back in the late twenties and early thirties I did a lot of Broadway. Then Hollywood came running with an open checkbook. I took a look at all the luscious blondes working at MGM and said, why not. I hated the producers, adored the women. Did you know I made love to Thelma Todd in the men’s room at her Sidewalk Cafe in Malibu three days before her mysterious death? I told her to stay away from those rotten gangsters. She won’t listen…” His voice trailed off.
“I understand you also had a torrid affair with Joan Crawford,” Rita said.
He smiled. “Yeah, sure. But who didn’t?”
“What was she like?” I asked.
“What was who like?” It was apparent that the years of hard drinking had killed a few billion of Jerome’s brain cells. He seemed a little confused when discussing the present, but when he recalled his time of glory and glamour he was as sharp as a tack.
“What was Joan Crawford like?” I repeated.
“Oh, Joanie, yeah! I loved her. My God, that woman had a sex drive that wouldn’t quit. And man, was she good in the sack. I mean, she was wild, a contortionist. She could bend herself into a pretzel. Half the time I didn’t know if I was in bed with Joanie or sleeping with Mankin the Frogman.”
Rita chuckled, and I wondered who Mankin the Frogman was. Jerome kept talking.
“Hell, I couldn’t keep her satisfied. I’d walk around in a daze. That was Joanie.” He shook his head. “She’d sleep with anyone who came within spitting distance. In those days, I had a personal bootlegger, a guy by the name of Jack Cruelle, used to deliver only the best, bring it right to the house-Ballantine’s, Johnny Walker, Chivas, you name it. He bottled the stuff somewhere out in the desert. But anyway, one day I came home early from the studio and my bootlegger and Joanie were going at it. They were out in the back by the pool, screwing like a couple of red-bellied lemurs, all assholes and elbows. They hadn’t noticed me standing there. So I just turned, went upstairs, and packed my bags.”
“You never saw her after that?” Rita asked.