“So Bogie got cancer and died in…when was it?” Leigh continued. “In ’57, I think. And then Frank started dating Betty. It got serious—quick. He proposed. But he wanted it to be a secret. Bogie had died only like a year before. One day she went out to see a picture with Swifty—Lazar, you know, the agent—and a reporter was there and asked about the engagement and she told the truth. She admitted it. I mean, why not, right? So it was going to hit the papers and Betty called Frank—I think he was in Miami or something—to explain how it had happened and apologize, and Frank lost his mind. I mean, deranged. Yelling. Punching the walls. The whole nine.”

She stubbed out her cigarette and lit another. Margaret sat patiently, waiting for the rest of the story.

“And then he did something that rivaled the cruelty Ava had subjected him to—he never spoke to Betty again. He didn’t answer the phone. He didn’t return her calls. This is a relatively recent widow, remember, so she was already something of a mess. But he just—pffffttt—snuffed out their relationship as if Betty Bacall had never existed. Imagine the kind of screwy wiring you have to have to do that to your fiancée merely because she told someone that the two of you were getting married. I mean, I love Frank and all, he’s a close personal friend and a marvelous performer, but let’s be honest—that’s psychotic.”

Across the room, Peter Lawford noticed Margaret’s empty seat and sidled up to Charlie.

“Congressman,” he said. “May I sit?”

Charlie extended his hand, offering the chair. The music continued to blare; the lights dimmed and under the cover of the artificial dusk, several guests stood and began to dance.

Who put the bomp in the bomp bah bomp bah bomp? boomed Barry Mann. Who put the ram in the rama lama ding dong?

“I’ve been trying to reach you since Rancho Mirage, but you’re impossible to track down,” Charlie said.

“I’ve seen you since then, have I not?” Lawford asked, pouring on the British charm as he poured more martini down his gullet.

“Not anywhere we could talk,” Charlie said. “I’ve been hoping you could tell me more about Margaret’s niece Violet. You said you saw her at a party.”