by Ava Barry
July 5, 1947: Los Angeles, California—
She’s sick of it, and I don’t blame her. Some days we can’t even get inside the studio, because the crowd’s too big. Most of them are here to see Nora, of course, that’s the only thing they want.
“I’m going to quit, Theo, I tell you!” she said, just last week, but she was laughing. Her good humor is starting to wear through, though. Dozens more bouquets of flowers delivered to her dressing room, none of them from people she knows.
MGM has hired extra studio muscle just to keep them out, but some of them always manage to sneak in. There are men who disguise themselves as janitorial staff and then make their way to Nora’s dressing room, and when she arrives, fall at her feet, professing their love.
And then there are the stalkers. Every star at the height of fame has a few stalkers, but some of them do nothing more than send a few fan letters. Most of Nora’s stalkers aren’t men, either; they’re women who are determined to make their own path in the film industry. Young women all over the country have been cutting their hair and staining their kitchen sinks with homemade dye jobs, desperately aiming for Nora’s blue-black tint. They’ve been painting their faces and having their picture taken, then sending them to the studios, hoping to get called in for a screen test.
At first, Nora was good-natured about it. As the fans and stalkers have grown more determined, however, I can see that it’s starting to wear away at her resolve. It’s unnerving to arrive at the studio gates for work each morning and find a wave of women with similar eyes, faces, hands, and haircuts to Nora’s. We’ve taken to calling them the Glum Noras, with their pathetic makeup and poorly done hairstyles.
One of these women broke into Nora’s dressing room last week while we were busy filming a scene for My Friend, Roy. By the time we’d found her, she had tried on each one of Nora’s dresses before finally throwing up on one of them and then passing out in the bathroom. The studio has promised to take measures to prevent these women from getting into the studio in the future, but if someone like Charlie Chaplin can get blackmailed by a stalker, it’s only fair to assume that the rest of us will have a worse case of it.
July 14, 1947—
Normal gang of misfits came to the party: Errol, Jules, Bill, and Cate Chapelle. Cate’s a good friend of Nora’s—don’t know her too well, but she seems likable. There’s the added bonus of the fact that she can’t stand our new producer, either.
We all got sloshed on sidecars and stayed out in the garden until the mosquitoes came out. Might still be a bit drunk as I write this—slept it off but woke up at five this morning, couldn’t fall back asleep.
Cate stayed in the guest room. Everyone else went home, but we had breakfast together this morning.
“So what do you think of MGM’s new despot?”
“He’s not so bad,” she said. “Probably worse for women than men, though.”
“I bet.”
She lowered her voice, even though we were the only ones around. “There are rumors about him, you know,” she said. “About things he does when no one else is around to stop him.”
“What do you mean?”
She studied her plate. “You’ve heard that Perla Hastings had her contract dropped when they found out that she was pregnant, right?”
“Sure.”
“Whose baby do you think it was?”
I slammed a hand on the table, and she jumped. “Sorry,” I said. “But if you’re serious about this, we need to investigate.”
She looked worried. “Forget I said anything,” she said. “I don’t know what I’m talking about.”
July 23, 1947—
Errol threw a party on his boat last night—same crew. Didn’t take the boat out on the water, because Errol was sloshed, just kept it in the marina. I wasn’t sure if Nora would come, and was quite happy that she did. After the fireworks and the cake, I tracked her down.
“Hello, Theo,” she said. “The studio’s letting you have a day off?”
“I’ve told them I’m working. Don’t spoil the secret.”
“Lord knows you need a rest,” she said. “You work harder than anyone.”
I took her aside. I’d been meaning to talk to her about what Cate had told me.
“Has he ever threatened you?”
She frowned. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Has he ever—you know, made a move? Threatened your career?”
Her face went dark. “He’s been flirtatious, but that’s about it. What are you saying?”
“Nothing for certain,” I said. “Just let me know if he does. Keep an eye out, that’s what I’m saying. Listen, you want to get out of here?”
“Where to?”
“I’ve got a surprise. Come on, let’s go.”
I’d had a few drinks but thought that I was probably still okay to navigate the roads. Nora was quiet and thoughtful as I drove through Brentwood, which was filled with the sound of Joan’s neighbors and their merrymaking.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked, as I drove down Wilshire Boulevard.
“It’s a surprise.”
I drove up through the sleepy little neighborhoods north of Wilshire, which have started to undergo various developments and restorations in the last few years. It’s funny to think that I can remember a time when Los Angeles still had a bit of farmland to it. I’ve never seen a city change so quickly beneath my feet.
When I turned up Benedict Canyon, Nora smiled.
“I know where we’re going,” she said. “You’re taking me to the old tuberculosis clinic.”
I smiled but said nothing. We turned onto Sweet Briar Way, then pulled onto the gravel drive that led up to the old clinic.
“You’re not planning to kill me, are you?” She laughed.
“This would be the perfect place to do it.” I climbed out, then went around and opened the door for her.
It was one of the last places where you could find solace in Los Angeles. The only sound we could hear was that of leaves and branches crunching beneath our footsteps, and as we walked toward the hulking form of the old house, Nora slipped her hand into mine.
When we reached the front door, I turned to look at her.
“You want to go inside?”
“What’s your plan?” she asked.
“Well, we could smash the windows,” I said, and shrugged. “Then again, someone might hear us and call the cops.”
“There’s nobody out here.”
“That’s true. It would make an awful mess, though. It might be easier to just unlock the door and let ourselves in.”
I removed a set of keys from my pocket. With a little flourish, I smiled at Nora and then unlocked the door.
She gave me a wide¯eyed look. “How on earth…?”
“I know someone.”
“Who?”
“He’s a realtor,” I said. “He sells houses. He sold me this house, actually.”
“Theo…”
“I needed a place to live,” I said. “Not a bungalow at the Garden of Allah, and not a rental in Beachwood Canyon. I need something I can call my own.”
She lingered at the edge of the doorway. “Why did you buy this place, though?”
“It’s the first time I felt like I belonged here,” I said. “That’s because of you.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“I have a favor to ask,” I said. “Are you feeling subversive?”
“I usually am,” she replied. “What’s up?”
“I’m working on a movie with John Cromwell,” I said. “It’s about the evils of the film industry. If you’re willing, we’d like you to play the lead. She goes off the rails at the end.”
“Can I act like Joan Crawford?”
“Of course you can,” I said, laughing. “Seriously, though, Nor_ I want you to consider this carefully. We’re going to piss off a lot of people, and if they realize what the analogy means, it could mean the end of my career. I don’t want you
to agree to do this lightly.”
Her face was dark, and I couldn’t see her expression. “MGM hasn’t done a lot for me lately,” she said. “If you’re making a movie to criticize them, I’m in.”
“Maybe you should read the script first,” I said.
“Theo, I said I’m in,” she said. “I’m capable of making my own decisions. Now, are you going to show me the inside of the house, or what?”
* * *
I flipped over to the next page, and a note fell out.
Theo ~
Can we meet later? Same spot as Monday.
Cate
I lay the note down next to the journal, puzzling over what it could mean. There was no mention of meeting Cate in Theo’s next few journal entries, but when I continued reading, I saw something written on a scrap of paper, which might have been connected:
Mtg w/ Dr. Menz re: CC
It took me a moment to piece together the fact that CC probably meant Cate Chapelle. The appointment was scheduled for about a week after they had planned to meet, but there was nothing in the next few pages about what the appointment had been regarding.
I continued reading Theo’s journals for about an hour, until I came to a set of entries that was increasingly dour. The last one ended with an apocryphal line that was not explained:
Our lives are fun, but not for us.
And then, on the next page, an announcement torn out of the Los Angeles Times. According to the article, an MGM starlet named Catherine Chapelle had died in her Beachwood Canyon home late one Sunday evening, and a private funeral service was to be held for her the following week.
THIRTEEN
I spent the rest of the night researching Cate Chapelle and trying to determine her cause of death. The only official statement I could find listed it as a death due to “medical complications.” My skin went cold as I read through the few journal entries prior, and tried to piece together the relationship that Theo and Cate had maintained.
According to all the research that I compiled, Cate had been a rising star when she died, someone only a few years behind Eleanor. Was it possible that Theo had killed someone else, and nobody had paid attention?
Petra came to my house early the next morning to review the information that we had collected so far.
“I got in touch with the son of the set designer who worked with Theo,” she said. “The composer, Marcus Loew.”
“Great work, Petra. Will he meet up with us?”
“I actually spoke to his assistant,” she said. “Marcus is in Hungary. He’s happy to talk to us, but depending on how long production drags on, he might not be back for another two weeks. I suggested a phone call, but apparently he doesn’t feel comfortable discussing this over the phone.”
“Let’s not bet on it, then,” I said. “Filming schedules are unpredictable.”
I turned on the stove and put the Atomic on. Before the coffee was ready, my phone rang.
Alexa Levine.
“Petra’s here right now,” I said, as soon as I answered the phone. “What’s up?”
“Turn on the news,” she said. Her voice was grim. “Call me back when you see it.”
I didn’t have a television, but I went to the Channel Nine website on my laptop. As soon as I reached their homepage, I saw what Alexa was referring to.
“Shit,” I said.
“What is it?” Petra joined me at the counter.
“Caleb is demonstrating outside Windhall.”
I clicked on the live stream of the video. It was a shot of Windhall taken from outside the front gate. A crowd of supporters stood outside Theo’s house, waving signs. NO MORE MURDERS! read one, while another read, TRIM THE THORNS! ARREST THEO! Most of the supporters looked like your standard, upper-middle-class former hippies, replete with knit hats and frumpish eyeglasses. I spotted a few kids in their early twenties who might have been Samira’s friends from art school.
A blond reporter interviewed Caleb.
“Mr. Walsh, you’re circulating a petition to have Windhall torn down. Tell us a little more about why you’re doing this.”
Caleb stared into the camera. “I don’t have any evidence that Theodore Langley killed my daughter,” he said. “In fact, I doubt that he did it. It doesn’t mean he’s not responsible, though. Ever since Theo killed Eleanor and got away with it, his house has stood as a monument to violence against women and a lack of accountability!”
The crowd of protesters cheered.
“I have to go over there,” I said.
“I’ll go with you,” Petra offered.
“No can do, sorry,” I said. “I’m going to try to get inside. I doubt that Theo would be willing to talk to you. I already have plans to meet up with him on Saturday, but he might be okay meeting me today instead.”
She looked disappointed. “Let me know how it goes,” she said. “I’ll try to find out more about this Ben Lewis character.”
* * *
I didn’t think that there would be any traffic at ten on a Friday morning, but driving through Hollywood was always a gamble. B movies and sequels were usually given daytime premieres to launch the weekend, and judging by the amount of trashy pedestrians and cars stacked bumper to bumper, Robert Downey Jr. was probably making an appearance on the Walk of Fame.
“Fucking Hollywood!” I yelled and hit my horn in frustration. It bleated a meek response. In the car next to mine, a gaggle of teenagers burst into laughter and started making faces at me. It took everything in my power not to leap out of the car and strangle one of them.
I spent an hour getting down Sunset, and another twenty minutes before I was able to disentangle myself from the blur of traffic and pedestrians angling for a glimpse of a mediocre celebrity conga line. Normally I would have taken side streets to avoid the entire catastrophe, but the side streets had been blocked off. By the time I reached Theo’s neighborhood, it was quiet, but I wasn’t close enough to Windhall to detect whether the protesters were still there. I parked in my usual spot, then walked toward the house.
There were four cars illegally parked on Theo’s street when I arrived, across Theo’s gate. Two of the cars were unoccupied, and two men with cameras loitered in front of the gate, peering in and chatting to each other. A few protesters lingered, but it looked like the majority of them had disappeared since the televised broadcast with Caleb.
As I moved closer, I saw that Caleb was still standing in front of Windhall’s main gate, speaking to two other protesters. The camera crews were gone, but one of the women he was speaking with looked like she might have been a journalist.
“Hey, buddy!”
I looked up to see who was talking. It was one of the two men leaning against the gate, a scrappy looking Hispanic guy with a ponytail and beige cargo shorts. His hat was on backward, and a $15,000 camera hung around his neck.
“Hey, what are you doing here?” he asked.
I didn’t respond but walked right up to the gate.
“I think this guy’s deaf, Jones,” the man said loudly to his friend, a fat redhead with freckles.
I ignored him. I didn’t know what I was hoping to do. Theo wasn’t expecting to see me until the next day for our tour, and I had no idea how to get into the house on my own.
“Hey.” This was from Cargo Shorts, who was walking toward me. His voice had adopted a more friendly tone. “Who do you work for?”
“A division of the Los Angeles Times,” I said. “It’s called the None of Your Fucking Business desk.”
“Hey, that’s clever,” he said. “Lemme guess, you got yourself an iPhone and think you’ll make yourself some cash with a photo of our guy here. What kind of range you think you’ll get? Fifty feet? You can stick around and try, but you won’t get shit with your little phone.”
The redhead giggled.
“Tell you what,” Cargo Shorts said. “Just go on home, pal. You’re wasting your time here.”
I walked over to where Caleb stood. He didn’t notice me, but c
ontinued speaking to the woman with the notepad, who was writing things down.
“Mr. Walsh,” I said. “My name is Max Hailey. With the Lens.”
He looked up at me and nodded his recognition, then turned back to the woman with the notepad.
“I don’t want to interrupt,” I said. “But you’ve promised us an exclusive story.”
“Look, Mr. Hastings,” he said, turning back toward me. “I’m not interested in selling my story to the highest bidder. I just want people to be aware of what’s going on.”
I tried to hide my irritation. The story belonged to Brian, not me, but for some reason he wasn’t there. I didn’t know whether Alexa had called him to let him know what was going on, but either way, I was the one who was going to be responsible for protecting the interests of the Lens.
“Miss,” I said, turning to the woman with the notepad. “Don’t you have any journalistic integrity?”
She looked at me like I was insane. “I run a blog.”
I swore to myself and then walked back toward the gate. If a rash of articles appeared in publications over the next few days, it was going to lessen the impact of my article about Theo, and by the time I pulled all my facts together, nobody would care anymore. I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Leland’s number. He picked up on the second ring.
“Mr. Hailey,” he said. “What can I do for you today?”
“You can tell your client to come down to his gate and let me in,” I said.
“I thought you were meeting him tomorrow.”
“Change of plans,” I said. “I’m sure you know about the protesters who have been outside Windhall all day.”
I could almost hear him rolling his eyes. “Yes, Mr. Hailey. I’m aware.”
“Caleb Walsh has been gaining public sympathy,” I said. “It’s only a matter of time before Theo gets ousted from Windhall, thanks to some legal bracket you probably didn’t consider when you had Windhall declared historic. If you want me to get Theo’s story out there, I need to run my interview. Tell Theo to let me in.”
“All right, Mr. Hailey, I’ll give him a call. Give me a minute, would you?”