by Ava Barry
“I don’t suppose you’ve read a copy of the script,” I said, distractedly. “Do you know what the movie was about?”
“Great script,” Monty said. “Pity it didn’t get released. The story’s about a young female journalist who finds out her boss has been extorting his employees for sex. Lots of metaphors and allusions, of course—this was during the Hays Code–era of filmmaking. Really limited filmmakers. It’d be like telling Michelangelo to paint the Sistine Chapel with crayons.”
I frowned. “That’s right,” I said. “They changed the story halfway through.”
Monty looked impressed. “How did you know that?”
“I’ve done some research on my own. You don’t happen to have a copy of the script, do you?”
Monty shook his head. “I read a copy, but that was years ago. I’ve been trying to find it again for years. There are rumors that Theo finished filming Last Train before leaving Los Angeles. If that film exists, it would prove everything.”
“ ‘Everything’?”
Monty adjusted his glasses once more. I could tell he was enjoying talking about Theo.
“I have a theory,” he said slowly, “that the film was full of studio secrets. All lightly veiled, of course, but enough to send a number of people to jail. Racketeering, bribes, conspiracy to murder.”
“Come on.”
“Why do you think they killed Eleanor?”
Petra and I exchanged a glance. “Theo killed Eleanor, you mean,” I said.
“He’s innocent. I guarantee it. The studio framed him because they were scared of his film. He’d threatened to release the thing under his own name—you know it was his money, don’t you?”
“No.”
“Sure, sure. He lost everything after the trial.” Monty shrugged. “That film would have proven his innocence, but nobody could ever find it.”
A thought came to me. “Have you ever heard of someone named Lola DeWitt?”
He shook his head. “Name doesn’t mean anything to me. Who is she?”
“An actress who worked with Theo and Eleanor,” I said. “Someone told me that I should look into her, but I can’t find anything about her online, other than an IMDb page.”
Petra cut in. “Who do you think was responsible for Eleanor’s death, if not Theo?”
“I can tell you that with complete certainty, too,” he said. “Reuben Engel. You do any kind of research on him, and you’ll see that he was the studio bitch. Trust me.”
* * *
Once we were back in the car, I burst into a cold sweat.
“Are you okay?” Petra asked. “You look awful.”
“Do you think he’s telling the truth?” I asked. “Do you think that Theo was framed?”
“Monty’s a bit extreme,” Petra said. “People who withdraw from society tend to be paranoid.”
“He made some good points.”
“Look, prominent unsolved murders always lead to a bunch of conspiracy theories. I’m sure Monty isn’t the first one to suggest that the studio was behind Eleanor’s death. Don’t you think there would be more evidence, if that were the truth?”
“Evidence,” I said, then frowned. “Oh, holy fuck. The film clip.”
“Film clip?”
“That clip! We have to get the clip back from Heather!”
“Hailey, what are you talking about?”
I sank my head in my hands. “Oh God, it’s too late.”
“You have to tell me what you’re talking about.”
I badly wanted to tell Petra about the contract with Heather, but I also knew that it was impossible. Nobody could know about the contract. I chewed on my fingernails for a moment, thinking. There was something else that I could tell her about, even if I couldn’t tell her about the magician’s film, now in Heather’s possession, or the contract that I had signed.
“There’s something else I should tell you,” I said. “You probably won’t believe me.”
“Try me.”
“Theo’s missing journals,” I said. “You’ve heard of them, right?”
“Everyone’s heard of them. They’re like F. Scott Fitzgerald’s pen collection, or Babe Ruth’s baseball bat. They’re legend.”
“I have them.”
“Bullshit.”
“Petra,” I said. “I’m not lying to you. I found a source close to Theo, and I can’t tell you who this person is, but I made a deal. I have the journals.”
Petra was quiet for a long moment. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t know whether I could trust you,” I admitted. “I also thought that I could do all the research by myself, but you’ve just shown me that I was wrong about that.”
“We talked about this the other day,” she said. “How can you expect me to do my job if you don’t share crucial information with me?”
“That’s a little unfair,” I said. “I’ve never worked on a story with anyone else, and I do tell you a lot.”
“Can I see them?” she asked finally.
“Yes,” I said. “They’re back at my place. Let’s go there now, and you can catch up on what I’ve already read. I’m almost at the end.”
SIXTEEN
We drove back toward my house without hitting any traffic. My kitchen ceiling was almost fixed, and the men Heather had sent were gone. Their tools were strewn around the kitchen, but it was possible that they had just gone out for more supplies without leaving a note.
The hole in the ceiling was gone from sight, but the roof wasn’t completely finished yet. They had replaced the inside of the kitchen roof with sheet metal and covered it up with paint and spackling paste, but the damage to the attic roof was a lot more extensive. The lead builder had communicated this all to me very slowly, because he could see that my technical knowledge was virtually nonexistent.
“Should take a few more days,” he’d said. “We’ll be done by the end of next week. Heather paid us to work quickly.”
Before heading out to the greenhouse with Petra, I put the Atomic on the stove, and when it was ready, I carried the coffee cups out with me. Petra and I sat side by side at the large table, and I gave her the stack of journals that I had already finished. I saved the last one for myself.
“Have you read all of these?” she asked, carefully turning the pages.
“Yeah, his handwriting’s a bit tough,” I said. “Just ask me if you get stuck.”
“What are you up to?”
I opened the last journal. “Nineteen forty-eight,” I said. “A few months before Eleanor was killed.”
“You think the journal will tell you what happened?”
“Only one way to find out, I guess,” I said.
* * *
February 19, 1948: Los Angeles, California—
The premiere for Susan and Her Small-Town Band is in four days. I should be excited, but I have so much on my mind that I can’t really wrap my head around it.
Nora’s still a mess, even after all this time. We’ve been trying to find ways to move past it, but she’s having trouble.
Today I met with the production designer for Susan.
“This movie is going to be huge,” he said. “The early reception we’ve gotten from critics tell us that this could be as big as Gone with the Wind, if not bigger.”
He crossed himself.
“Now, let’s talk logistics. The whole day is going to be about the premiere, from the morning to night. We’ve rounded up all the extras on contract, and they’ll be walking around Hollywood during the day, dressed up as small-town citizens. We’re going to have barbershop quartets and musicians making music. We want everyone to get in the mood, see? In the evening, we’ll have Tommy Dorsey and his orchestra stationed just outside the theater, playing something good and peppy.”
“Sounds great.”
“That’s not all,” he said. “Here’s the kicker. We’ve hired six low-flying airplanes to circle Hollywood Boulevard as the premiere is starting, and they’ll drop magnolias f
rom the sky. Just like in the scene from the movie! The crowds will love it; it will make them feel like they’re part of the film.”
“Isn’t that some kind of traffic hazard?”
He gave me a strange look. “We’re not normal people, Theo. Normal rules don’t apply to us.”
“Right, right.”
I was leaving the studio when I ran into John Cromwell. We haven’t spoken since the studio canceled Last Train to Avalon, but he didn’t look surprised to see me, and he took my hand.
“Congratulations,” he said. “I’ve heard Susan is poised for success.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Will you be at the premiere tonight?”
“Oh, no,” he said. “I like to avoid premieres.”
“Why’s that?”
“We encourage madness, don’t we? I don’t need to see it firsthand.”
“Eleanor said something similar once.”
“Ah, Eleanor,” he said faintly, and his expression was difficult to read. “How is she?”
I had an automatic pleasantry at the ready, but then I remembered that if there was one person in Hollywood with whom I could be honest, it was John.
“I’m worried about her,” I said. “I haven’t seen her in a few weeks, and I’m not sure she’ll show up for the premiere.”
“It happens to everyone sooner or later.”
“What’s that?”
“The pressure,” he said. “The difference between the character they play on-screen and their true personality. If you don’t break free from the studios altogether, you’ll end up going crazy.”
“She’s got three more movies on her contract.”
“And I hear that this one’s going to be one of the biggest,” he agreed. “They won’t let her go easily after that. Eleanor makes a ton of money for MGM.”
I toyed around with an idea and decided to come out with it. “I’m going ahead with the story,” I said. “I’ve decided to finish editing Last Train to Avalon. There are a few scenes missing, but it’s almost ready. If the studio doesn’t want to finance it, it’s fine; I have enough money to pay for the rest myself.”
“I see.”
“Oh, tell me what you really think.”
“I’ll be surprised if they don’t tear Eleanor apart,” he said.
“Who?”
“The studios, the audience,” he said. “Does it matter? Surely you know the old adage about people offering their gods up for a feast. We must destroy our gods eventually; every religion dictates it.”
“I disagree.”
“Stick around,” he said. “They can’t exist without us, and for that, they come to resent us. It’s the infinite struggle, Theo, the reason why nobody can ever be truly happy when their gods are within reach. They must destroy us, possess us, or watch us die.”
March 14, 1948—
The word’s out. Apparently half of Hollywood knows that we’re planning to release Last Train to Avalon, but if my head’s on the chopping block, I haven’t realized it yet.
Raoul had a party last night. I didn’t want to go, and I tried to stay home, but Errol and Jules came over and strong-armed me into it.
“You don’t get to hide, boyo,” Errol said. “You’re still a part of the group.”
We watched all the houses south of Mulholland disappear beneath the bends of the road as we drove over.
“Why do we do this?” I asked, turning to Jules.
“Do what?”
“Pretend.”
“Because we can’t face ourselves, obviously,” he said. “Don’t worry, Errol brought plenty of alcohol.”
We took shots in the garden, and by the time we walked up to the front door, I was nicely sauced. I asked, “Where’s Nora?”
There was a long silence. I was drunk, but not too drunk to see that Errol and Jules exchanged a glance.
“Have another drink, pal,” Errol said, turning to pass me his flask.
“He’s had enough.”
“Have one more.”
“You haven’t answered my question,” I said.
“She’s not here,” Jules said. “Nobody’s seen her in a month.”
“We need to go to her house,” I said, suddenly adamant. “She could be in trouble, and nobody would even know.”
“We’re staying at the party,” Errol said. “You might have written a nice little treatise against Hollywood, but you can’t just disappear, or your whole career will be sunk. Look sharp, sit smart, and we’ll be there in a minute.”
The night was a masquerade, filled with bowing gods and starlets in silk dresses. They drifted past me in a haze of smoke and expensive perfume. I couldn’t focus on any of them; they all faded together into a blur.
I had been to Raoul Walsh’s house once before, but I had never been to one of his parties. There were so many people that I was hoping to lose myself in the crowd, but that quickly proved to be impossible. Before we had even reached the front door, I felt sharp fingers digging into my elbow. I turned around to find Hedda Hopper.
“Theo,” she drawled. “How lovely to see you. One would almost think you were set to vanish completely.”
“Hedda,” I said, trying to gather my wits about me. I hoped she couldn’t tell that I was absolutely blitzed.
“It doesn’t bode well for a leading lady’s career when she can’t participate in the social scene,” she went on. She had an unpleasant little smirk on her face. “Where is Eleanor this evening?”
“Tell me, Hedda,” I said, reaching out to touch her face. “Did you use words like ‘bode’ before you adopted that fake British accent, or is that a new thing?”
Errol burst into laughter and then quickly tried to disguise it with a coughing fit. Jules looked scandalized, and then he too looked like he might collapse into laughter.
“You haven’t achieved the kind of grandeur necessary to become an alcoholic wreck,” Hedda sneered. “And neither have your friends.”
“Good God, who needs grandeur?”
“You’re pathetic, Theodore Langley.”
“Coming from you, that almost seems like a compliment.”
She jabbed a finger in my chest. “I own the eyes, the ears, and the lips in this town,” she said. “You forget yourself.”
“People keep claiming the anatomy of Los Angeles,” I said, and sighed. “But if we’re dividing up parts, I think a colon is more in line with what your career represents.”
“Bastard!”
“Write whatever you want about me, Hedda,” I said. “I’m a director, nobody gives a damn about me.”
“What about your friends?” She gave an evil look to Errol and Jules, who were choking on their fists in a desperate bid to disguise their laughter.
“They seem to like me.”
“No, you idiot,” she said. “You seem to forget that they have careers, too. You’re going to regret tonight, Theo, mark my words.”
And with that, she swished off.
It might have been a good idea to leave after that, but we couldn’t resist going inside for one more drink. We found Eddie Mannix, who was standing at the bar and giving a wary eye to the people dancing inside. He caught sight of me before I had a chance to do so.
“Get your ass over here, Langley,” he said.
“Aye, aye, sir.” I gave him a mocking salute.
He turned to Jules. “You should tell your friend not to be such a smart-ass,” he said. “He’s liable to get himself in trouble.”
“I’ll relay the message, sir.”
Eddie turned back to me. “Where’s Eleanor?”
“Ladies’ room?”
“What did I just say about being a wiseass?”
“I don’t know where she is.”
“You’re her director,” he said. “It’s your job to make sure that your leading lady shows up nice and pretty for parties, whether or not she’s under the weather.”
“I can’t control her.”
He laughed. “Good to know,” he said. “May
be it’s time I take responsibility for that.”
“I didn’t mean that.”
“I’d like you to pass along a message,” he said. “You think you can remember, or will you be too drunk?”
“I’m not drunk.”
“There’s a thousand girls out there who look just like her,” he said. “She’s not that special. If she can’t look sharp and show up on time, we’ll get rid of her.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Let’s go, Theo,” Jules said quickly.
Eddie gave me one final look, then returned his attention to the rest of the guests in the room.
Once we were back in the car, I turned to Jules.
“Why’d we leave?”
“That was a threat, Theo,” he said quickly, putting his car in gear and then easing down the street. “I don’t know how serious he was, but I don’t think we should test it.”
* * *
I flipped through the rest of the pages, but they were blank. Along the inside spine of the journal were the riffled edges of torn pages. The rest of the journal was missing.
“Shit,” I said.
Petra looked up from her stack. “What’s up?”
“That’s the last one,” I said. “It just… stops. It looks like the rest might be missing.”
“Shoot. What do you think happened to it?”
“Maybe Theo got rid of it,” I said. “Or maybe someone else did, after the journals were stolen.” I stopped a moment short of mentioning Heather’s name. “This isn’t the first piece of the journal that’s missing. I mean, I’ve seen other pages that were torn out. But it seems like the next piece might have been something crucial.”
Petra looked stumped, and I ran a hand through my hair.
“I’m starting to get a bad feeling about this,” I said. “What if I was wrong about Theo?”