The telephone book has an entry for Jeanne St. Jayne living at 34 Greencrest Road, LaCanada -- which you know as a ritzy neighborhood in the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains about an hour north of Hollywood. It also has her phone number: ST-4573

Peggy will let Everly drive, if she has a car, or else would be happy to share a cab to Ms. St. Jayne's place.  "I never did get very comfortable with driving, I'm afraid!" she says with a little laugh.

When they arrive at the fine neighborhood, Peggy takes a moment to check her hair and makeup in her compact mirror, touching up her powder, freshening her lipstick, patting down her hair and clothes to make them as neat and respectable as possible. One couldn't make a first impression twice, after all.  Once settled, she went up to Ms. St. Jayne's door and knocked, keeping a pleasant expression on her face for the woman; it would not do to start off crying "doom" before they knew anything.

In reply to Margaret Waithe (msg # 2):

Everly did indeed drive Ms Waithe to the house, and parked the car outside, then she asked how long the other woman would be, and when she got an answer, nodded and drove to the office.
This message was last edited by the player at 12:51, Sat 07 Mar 2020.

Rose Ranch is a fourteen-acre, walled and gated estate once owned by movie mogul Nate Simpson, nestled in the foothills of the San Gabriels east of town. The large ranch house is located past the gates up a winding drive, ensuring maximum privacy.

When Margaret presses the buzzer set into the gate post she can hear distant sound of dogs barking. Large dogs by the sound of it.

"Who is it?" A speaker box mounted above the buzzer squawks and sounds tinny, but is quite clear. A woman's voice, bored yet impatient at the same time.

OOC: I think Everly would wait to see if Margaret even gets past the gate before she drives off. Thanks.

"Hello, Ms. St. Jayne?  It's Peggy, Peggy Waithe.  I was on the set when Mr. Brophy was there a week or so back.  Would it be too much of an imposition to talk to you?" Peggy says with as much politely and kindess as she can muster.

There was a distinct pause at the far end, a hiss of static on the squawk box.

"Alright," the tinny voice agreed at last. "Wait two minutes before you open the gate so I can get the dogs inside."

The box went dead and a magnetic servo clicked as it opened the gate latch. From somewhere down the driveway Peggy heard the sound of a piercing whistle and the barking of dogs responding eagerly to it.

As Peggy opened the gates and started down the driveway, Everly started back on the road to Hollywood with a spatter of gravel from beneath the tires. Her taillights disappeared quickly in the gathering gloom.

The driveway curved in an exaggerated S shape ending in a circle in front of the sprawling ranch house. This was the home of someone rich who wanted to show it off. The gardens were well cared for and tastefully set out. The gravel drive had been raked within a week, and the house looked clean and polished.

As Peggy reached the steps up to the porch, the  front door opened and a breathtakingly beautiful young woman saunters out to greet her.

Jeanne St. Jayne is dressed in a stunning Pierre Balmain dress, revealing plenty of leg and cleavage. “Won’t you come in,” invites St. Jayne, beaming a perfect Hollywood smile. The front room walls are covered with framed pictures of the actress taken from magazine covers, movie posters, and newspaper features.

"Can I fix you a drink?" she offers pausing in front of a well stocked liquor cabinet. "I've got a head start on you, I'm afraid, but you can catch up if you like."

As she mixes another bourbon and water for herself and whatever Peggy wants, she asks over her shoulder.

"So, you said Brophy sent you? What does that pig want now?"

Peggy will accept a whiskey and soda and sip lightly in appreciation.  "I must confess, Mr. Brophy didn't send me.  In fact, Mr. Brophy is missing.  No one has seen him since two weeks ago."  She sets the drink down and leans forward earnestly.  "Apparently, he promised Ed Meyers that you, Miss St. Jayne, would be in his next film, which started filming two days ago.  Took an advance and all.  But clearly you were already engaged elsewhere." Peggy's voice is sympathetic; a woman does what she must.  "But Mr. Brophy is missing and Mr. Meyers urgently desires to speak with him. Do you know where he may be?  We can deliver the pig to the butcher, as it were." The last is said with humor, inviting Ms. St. Jayne to share in her own description of the man.

St. Jayne's eyes flinch away from Peggy's when the investigator mentions that Brophy has gone missing. She mixes the whiskey and soda, a generous pour, and clinks glasses with her before she speaks.

"He's not reliable," she says. "He let me down. Tried to sell me to the highest bidder. Why should I give a tinker's damn about what happened to him?"

This last is a almost a wail, and the young starlet abruptly sits down on a sofa looking very young and vulnerable.

"He's probably gone down to Mexico on a bender," she gasps at last, swallowing the last of her own drink.

"Why are you interested? Did Myers hire you as some kind of private detective?"

The look of scorn from a pretty young thing to an older woman is palpable.

Peggy shakes her head.  "It seems Mr. Meyers would rather not involve..." Peggy pauses and waves her hand for emphasis as she finds the right word, "outsiders in his little quest to discomfit Mr. Brophy for his 'betrayal'.  Undoubtedly he counted on a passel of starving actors being willing to keep their mouths shut more than a private detective who might sell the story to the highest-paying newspaper or something of the sort.  Frankly, from what little I saw and what you've said, it sounds like Mr. Brophy is a right boor and a cad, regardless of whatever business acumen he may have claimed.  If there's someplace he might be, particularly if it's someplace where he's likely to have gotten himself in an embarrassing pickle, would you tell me?  That way we'll both get a good laugh at the cad's expense, and then Mr. Meyers can go thrash him a bit more for being a two-timing fool,"

Peggy smiles and tries to put Ms. St. Jayne at ease, wanting her to know she's on her side and shares her opinion of the missing man.

St. Jayne calms down as Peggy reassures her, and sips her drink. The tears dry up and she smiles again.

"You're alright, Miss Waithe," she says. "Brophy is a boor and a cad. He deserved what he got, I say.

"Can I freshen that drink for you?"

The starlet seems intent to settle in on an evening of boozing and is quite happy to have Peggy join her.

Peggy smiles and shakes her head.  "Of course, give an old lady time to catch up!" she says cheerfully/  She accepts the drink, but sips slowly. "Do tell though, what did Brophy get?  I'm quite happy to unleash the hounds on him for you, if I just know where to point their noses.  You, my dear, deserve to sleep well at night knowing the fool has been not-so-richly rewarded!"

The young woman grimaces as Peggy asks about what Brophy "got".

"Oh, you know," she says airily, "he's off on some bender, and I hope he gets a thick head and thick ear from Meyer's bully boys for being a cad."

But she's clearly a bit upset at what she said in a moment's thoughtlessness.

"You know," she says, jumping up. "This is the cheap stuff. I've got some real French champagne on ice in the kitchen. Let's have a drink together, shall we?"

She does not wait for a reply but goes quickly out of the room.

Peggy follows Jeanne with some alacrity.  The young woman seemed to be running away from things, and not just physically.  "You are kind, my dear.  And have much to celebrate with your new role and shedding a burden."  Peggy will leave her first glass in the living room, as she certainly did not need to get drunk.  "I'm quite happy to give Mr. Meyer's bully boys a head and ear to pummel.  Where's the fool likely to go on his benders?  Because if he tried to interfere with you, I will do all that I can to see that he's not only pummeled but humiliated.  Let me know where he's likely to be swanning around, and I can turn the dogs loose."

OOC: 21:34, Today: Secret Roll: Margaret Waithe rolled 18 using 1d20+8.  Diplomacy.

OOC: I'm going to turn your Diplomacy roll into an Innuendo roll: St. Jayne thinks she has let slip to you something she does not want you to know -- she knows something  about that happened to Brophy -- that something not good did happen to him. Her intentions towards Margaret right now might not be good either.

Peggy is abruptly uncomfortably aware that she has little defense against someone bound to hurt her, and that as frail as her health is, a dose of something noxious would have her swooning in no time at all.  And she hadn't coordinated a return time with anyone to be picked up.

"Jeanne, please don't run, my dear.  That fool isn't worth it; whatever happened to him, he likely deserved it  I'm only here to find Brophy, and your name doesn't need to come in to whatever fate he's suffered. If he isn't found, likely someone will be bothering you off and on until they find him, and I'm certain you don't want that.  Tell me, Jeanne."

"That's OK, honey, I'll just open us a bottle of bubbly and we'll drink a toast to rotters. You wait for me here, OK?"

The young starlet moves towards the back door, intent on fetching something from outside. Your whole instinct is that she means to do you harm.

Peggy takes the moment of Jeanne's distraction to go to the front door and out, walking as quickly as she can down the street and in as much light as she can.  She hopes she can find a sympathetic person to ask to use their phone in their house, or even a police officer!

Inside, she was shaking.  What had Jeanne done to Brophy?  Did she have friends who had "taken care" of him?  Or... was there something else?

The ranch sits in its own plot, fenced in and a hundred yards or more from the actual street -- where there is a five foot tall chain link fence and a gate controlled from the house. Peggy can leg it and hope to get over the fence if she wants -- before St. Jayne releases the dogs!

Dusk is turning to purple darkness and there is no sign of lights anywhere other than the house behind her.

A burst of panic wells in her throat.