From the desk of Betsy Baxter, BB Pictures

Dearest Jeany:

A postcard of the Eiffel Tower telling me that you arrived and are married is not enough! Post immediately reams of paper filled with details and pictures! I look forward to your sketches of all the sights from the Palais-Royal Gardens to Versailles. You must have lunch at Fouquet’s, never mind the expense (just send the bill to the studio). Have Fred photograph every dish and you!

Send me information about the fashions. Absolutely everything from what the girl on the street is wearing to the best dressed ladies at the opera. After all, when the Flapper Detective goes to Paris, she needs to be immersed in fashion and return home with loads of new dresses. Never mind what Farnsworth says about the state of my closets. I have to look my very best, don’t I? It’s all part of the business.

Which means, no matter how often Farnsworth sighs about “vanity, vanity, all is vanity” (please imagine this in my butler’s most woebegone tones), I need Parisian gowns for all the Hollywood parties as well as the next serial adventure.

I continue talking to some radio people about adapting my detective stories for them. Sound, they tell me, is the coming thing. Which means I won’t have so many excuses to buy dresses if I am simply speaking lines into a microphone. Also, sound effects won’t be nearly as much fun as doing my own stunts.

You may now imagine Farnsworth’s contribution to my musings on how dull being a radio star might be as “Can madam do anything which does not require her to risk her neck?”

Madam isn’t sure. I love the thrill of making the Flapper Detective movies. Although Tom says you can’t do the same thing forever, which is an interesting philosophy for a man who is still working in his family business, doing exactly what all those bookselling Sweets did before him.

However, a new film role might make the critics sit up and take notice. You must start thinking very hard about how to make me look like a femme fatale. Which shouldn’t be too difficult as you are right in the middle of Paris, where fatal women apparently appear all the time.

There’s a new (to me) studio proposing to bring in fresh faces and tell stories in startlingly different ways (which, of course, is what everyone promises when they start a studio). But Lantern Top Pictures is intriguing as they want me as a villainess! Betsy Baxter, a face almost as sickeningly wholesome as Mary Pickford (I wonder if she gets as frustrated being America’s sweetheart as I do hearing about how nice my detective is?). The darling flapper, as the Arkham Advertiser so kindly calls me, transformed into the latest style of vamp! I hope to persuade Lantern Top to hire you too. You created such a memorable look for Renee and you haven’t costumed a proper villainess in ages.

Speaking of Renee, I’m so glad you talked your sister into visiting our friends in Seattle. They will adore showing off their cabin on the beach (I can’t imagine Lulu living the rustic life, but I understand they only stay there for the weekends and then retreat back to the city). Just as I promised, I took Renee to the train station myself. She was much more complimentary about my driving than you or Fred.

Renee also asked me to store a trunk for her. Or, rather, the trunk. The one we left behind in Arkham with the reels from Sydney’s final film. I remain a little superstitious about that movie. I won’t even write down its name. It’s like saying Macbeth in a theater. But you know exactly what I’m talking about.

Now don’t get excited, but apparently Humbert shipped the trunk to you about the time you and Fred boarded the boat for Paris. It arrived in Los Angeles the same day as Renee was leaving. “Oh darling Betsy,” she said to me, looking as appealingly helpless as a small kitten (I used to envy Renee’s ability to switch from absolutely chilling to completely vulnerable with just one look. There are still days when I despair of being even half the actress that she was). “What will I do? I can’t possibly leave the trunk in storage at the station for a month. I’ll cancel the trip and take it home with me.” But I saw her shudder and knew she wanted no mementoes of Sydney at your house.

“Absolutely not,” I said stoutly as I shoved (in the gentlest way) your sister up the steps onto her train.

“Betsy Baxter to the rescue. I’ll retain the big strong porter who toted all your luggage here. He can strap the trunk on the back of the roadster and away I’ll go with it.”

“You mustn’t leave the trunk at the studio!” Renee cried as I filled her arms with chocolates, champagne, magazines, and a few small gifts for Eleanor and Lulu. Luckily Farnsworth provided a basket for all these extras. “There are people still searching for those reels.”

You had told me that Renee received letters about the film from a few of Sydney’s more deranged fans who, sadly, still seem to have connections at the studio even though I’ve changed the name and the management! 

“Don’t worry!” I said. “I will take the trunk and its contents home. Farnsworth will lock it up somewhere absolutely safe.” Honestly, we probably should have shipped the trunk to Hollywood the last time I was in Arkham, but I was a little distracted then and the trunk seemed perfectly safe with Humbert.

Renee gave me the claim ticket for the trunk as well as a rather odd note from Humbert about how things were soon to be worse in Arkham. According to Humbert, flooding in the near future might endanger the trunk so he felt it would be safer away from the Fitzmaurice house. Which is strange, you must admit. I mean, the house was on the top of a hill so it’s hard to imagine the river flooding the barn out back. On the other hand, it’s Arkham and, as Tom says, a very unusual place.

“Betsy, you are an absolute angel,” said Renee.

“Being an angel is my specialty,” I said, because really where would you all be if I didn’t organize things properly (with a little help from Farnsworth, who begs me to remember who arranged for the chocolates and so on). I hopped off the train after a few more hugs and waved goodbye.

The porter, a terrifically nice man named Orville, and I immediately went to the portion of the station where one claimed luggage sent from elsewhere. I turned in the ticket. Orville loaded the trunk onto his cart. We were merrily proceeding to my roadster when the most devastatingly handsome man yelled, “Stop!”

Please don’t mention the “devastatingly handsome” to Tom, but, seriously, the stranger’s cheekbones alone almost made me swoon.

“Have you ever considered being in pictures?” I said to the gentleman as he came up to us.

He seemed a little startled by my question. “Madam,” he said, “I am in pictures, as you say. I am Andre Patel. Already I am well known for my roles in movies made outside your Hollywood.”

All of which was said in the loveliest baritone voice, exactly like honey dripping over warm croissants, with just enough of an accent to make any American woman sway a bit closer. When the movies switch to sound, this man will outshine us all.

Of course, I recognized his name. There had been some chatter in the gossip columns about Patel being brought to Hollywood to star in Lantern Top’s films. A soon as I saw him, I began considering how I could swipe him for a Flapper Detective story or two. Maybe in return for playing their villainess? I would have to talk to the lawyers.

“I’m Betsy Baxter,” I said, shaking his hand. “I make pictures in Hollywood but am planning to film in Paris soon.”

His eyes widened. “But of course. You are the Detective à la Flapper!”

“Mais oui!” I responded as I have been practicing that bit of French for our next picture.

“But what are you doing with my trunk?” he said, pointing to the battered old steamer trunk loaded onto Orville’s cart.

“I’m afraid it’s not your trunk,” I said. “I just collected it from the station for a friend.”

“No, no,” Andre said, but in the kindest of tones. “It’s most definitely my trunk. See, here is my name painted on the side.”

Which, by golly, was there or at least “A. Patel” in white paint. But, other than that, the trunk was the very make and model of the one that you stashed in the barn on French Hill. However, further investigation of the luggage tag revealed that it was one number off from my claim ticket. When we collected the trunk, the man handing it over was so busy trying to get my autograph, none of us looked at the tag too closely.

“Oh dear,” I said, “they’ve given me the wrong trunk. Orville, let us return to where we began and start again.”

“Certainly, ma’am,” said the obliging Orville, tipping his cap. We trundled back to the other end of the station with Andre tagging along. He had to. His trunk was on Orville’s cart. However, Orville and I offered to take Patel’s trunk to the taxi stand before loading mine on my roadster.

But the return to the luggage room proved an even greater disaster awaited us. The correct trunk had vanished! The very apologetic railroad employee explained a large number of trunks had been picked up by an antiques dealer and taken away to his shop just before I had arrived the first time.

“His trunks came from New England too,” said the railroad man. “And we assumed yours was part of his shipment.”

In short, a bit of a mix up. Actually, more of a catastrophe if anyone knew what was really in the trunk from Arkham.

“But, wait, I know this man,” Andre exclaimed when the railroad man gave a description of the antiques dealer. “He is supplying props for our films at Lantern Top.”

“Oh dear,” I said. This was becoming worse and worse. If the antiques dealer pried open the trunk or anyone at Lantern Top did, they were sure to spot all the costumes and the canisters of film stored under them. What a sensation that would make! Sydney’s lost film found again. What a calamity for us all.

“But not to worry, I can take you to his shop so you can retrieve your luggage,” said Andre. “Then I can go to Lantern Top with my trunk. It is the problem solved most easily. We simply arrange for a taxi.”

“No need!” I exclaimed. “I have my car right outside. Orville can load your trunk onto my roadster, we will fetch my trunk from this antiques shop, and I will happily take you to Lantern Top as my thank you.”

“You are too kind,” Andre said. “I cannot take you so far out of your way.”

“They’re filming on Lot C?” I said. “I can get you there much quicker than any taxi, even with stopping at the antiques shop. I know all the shortcuts in Los Angeles.”

Which is absolutely true, as you know. If I lost my fortune tomorrow, I could become the City of Angel’s very first female cab driver. And very, very good I would be too!

Andre admitted as much as we pulled in front of the antiques store. “Madame Inès Decourcelle could take lessons from you!” he said as he unfolded himself from the passenger seat. “Never have I traveled so swiftly from one place to the next.”

“Who is Madame Decourcelle?” I said as we peered into the dusty windows of the shop.

“She claims she was the first femme chauffeur in Paris. A cab driver, if you will,” said Andre, testing the shop’s door. It opened with a tinkle from an overhead bell. “There used to be postcards of her driving her automobile available for all the tourists.”

“How wonderful,” I said, following him into the shop. “I hope my friend Jeany will send me one. She is in Paris now.”

“Oh this was from before the war,” Andre admitted. “But you still find pictures of Madame Decourcelle in some of the flea markets.”

“I will tell Jeany to look there,” I said, and now you have been told. If you find one, send it to me. You know I love such things.

On the other hand, the items in the antiques shop gave me the shivers. I can’t say exactly what it was about the place, but everything made me feel unsettled. The taxidermied squirrels lined up on the top of one glass case were particularly gruesome with bulging eyes and teeth much too big for a squirrel. A box of brass and tin ornaments reminded me of those horrible amulets that Sydney used to scatter around the sets. All twisted stars with eyes engraved in the middle.

“They’re using this stuff as props at Lantern Top?” I said, inching as far away as possible from the strange collection of dusty globes which showed continents that I did not recognize.

“The producer said such props give the sets more authenticity,” Andre said. “Alice Gaither, our director, agreed.”

“Oh yes, I heard Alice was directing all the films at Lantern Top,” I said. A female director was one of the reasons that I was so interested in the studio’s offer.

“Alice picked out a number of items, including a cloak for the film about the countess,” Andre said.

I didn’t say a word, not one word, against Alice, because I wanted to work with her. But I would never allow a single thing from that creepy shop onto any set at BB. I was more anxious than ever to find the trunk.

“Hello!” I called. “Is anyone here?”

A dusty drape covering a doorway stirred but no one responded.

“Please! I think you have my trunk,” I called. “I’ll give you fifty dollars if it is here.”

Andre looked  startled at my sudden offer of cash, but I wanted out of the room as quickly as possible. If waving money at someone would make that happen, I was willing to wave.

Apparently, I had found the magic words, because the drape parted and the most wizened woman ever seen crept into the room. She looked like an animated mummy, one of those horrid ones where the bandages have all been stripped off and the desiccated skin and bones are on display. You remember the photographs in the old Egyptology book that Fred took such delight in showing us when Sydney wanted a scene with a mummy. I was never so glad as when Renee vetoed the idea. Especially since I was the one that you decided to make up as the mummy!

“You are here for the trunks?” the woman said.

“Just one,” I replied. “It was mixed up with your delivery.”

“I told him thirteen trunks couldn’t be right. Nobody would be so foolish to send such an unlucky number,” she said to me. “But he went off and left me to unpack everything.”

“Have you unpacked them all?” I asked with some trepidation. I glanced around the room, but I didn’t see anything that I recognized.

“No, I don’t have keys for the thirteenth trunk,” she said.

“Oh good!” I said. “That’s probably mine. I’ll give you fifty dollars for your trouble.”

“No trouble at all,” said the old woman, holding up the dusty curtain that divided the shop into two rooms. “It’s one less thing to unpack.” As I passed her going into the depths of the shop, she thrust out her hand. “But I’ll take the fifty dollars. Money is money and the owner’s always late paying me.” I dropped the cash into her hand.

“So this is not your shop, madame?” Andre asked courteously as he followed me into the other room.

The old lady cackled as she tucked away the fifty dollars. “I’m the hired help. The owner’s a big man, full of mystic secrets, as he’ll tell you himself. He certainly impressed those fools at Lantern Top.”

“But I am one of the actors working at Lantern Top,” Andre told her with no particular heat. I did like his matter-of-fact manner. A number of actors that we know would make a fuss to hear their studio disparaged.

She shook her head. “That’s your bad luck then. Be careful what you touch. There’s a reason he sold the stuff so cheap.”

I interrupted their discussion with my own exclamations when I spotted the trunk in the corner of the room. “That’s mine,” I said, pointing at it. A quick check confirmed the trunk was still locked. Our secrets were safe.

Andre and I carried the trunk out of the shop and strapped it onto my car. The roadster valiantly went full throttle to Lantern Top despite being terribly unbalanced by two steamer trunks. Andre was very gracious about the whole trip, not even clutching the door handle when I took a sharper than intended turn onto Lot C.

“Mademoiselle Baxter,” he said as he removed his trunk from my car, “you might have a second career as a female racecar driver.”

“Oh I have a friend who races airplanes. It’s far more exciting,” I said. “Although I enjoy a good motorcycle race.”

Andre bowed to me. “I look forward to seeing you again,” he said. “You are truly the most American daredevil.”

“I am considering a role at Lantern Top,” I told him. But as I looked around the lot, something about it gave me the heebie jeebies. I cannot tell you why, but it was much like that weird little antiques shop. “You should be careful,” I said to Andre, thinking of the warning from the old lady about touching certain things.

“Mademoiselle, it is the movies,” he said. “All the dangers are pretend. We understand this, you and I.”

But, Jeany, we know differently. Which is why there is a trunk now very securely locked up in my attics.

Oh dear, I started off with such a cheerful letter, but it seems to end with gloomier thoughts. You must not worry. You know me. I’ll be on my guard when I visit Lantern Top. And it’s probably all nothing, anyway.

Kiss Fred on the Champs Elysees. Remember, this trip is your honeymoon gift from me. Don’t pay any attention to my silliness. Have a wonderful time. And do send me sketches of beautiful dresses!

Your friend, always,

Betsy

Rosemary Jones