“I know.”
“I lied to you.”
“I know.”
“So why are you asking me now? How can you believe me?”
He rubbed his sweaty neck, then rubbed his sweaty hands on his thighs. His face was a sunspot. Sun on his cheeks and chin, hat low on his head. I couldn’t see him through sun and hat.
“Because it doesn’t matter,” he said. “Anything we do now, we’ll swear later that we didn’t do. I have questions. I know there’s no case, but I have questions anyway.”
“You have other murders to investigate.”
“I’ll always have other murders. It’s Hollywood. Missy says you’ve got until this afternoon to get questions answered, and after that, the questions don’t exist, either. You do have questions, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I said. “One big question.”
“I’ll admit, for a while my big question was whether you murdered your friend. It sure looked like you. I would have sworn it was you.”
“What changed your mind?”
“If you killed your best friend, there’d be no reason for anyone to cover it up. The best proof of your innocence is me being told that Rosemary Brown committed suicide. So, there it is. The coroner’s decision is final. I’ve been pulled off cases before, I know how it works. You and me, we know as much of the truth as we’re going to. I can’t say I trust you completely, but I believe you didn’t murder Rosemary Brown.”
“Thank you.”
“Well, I was hard on you,” he said. “I’m still not sure about the whole kidnapping plot. I thought I had you there. Aw, hell. Missy talked to a doctor at Hollywood Receiving. The doctor is waiting for us.”
“I’m due at Paramount. I’m running late. I might as well be a little later. Do you have any money for gas?”
* * *
Dr. Ostrander wasn’t happy. “I thought you’d be here three hours ago. I’ve been waiting.”
“You’re not busy,” Conejos said. We stood in the empty emergency room. A nurse read Movie Mirror at her desk.
“It’s Saturday. I’m busy, you just can’t see it.”
“We won’t keep you,” Conejos said. “Just one question.”
Dr. Ostrander pulled aside the curtain and walked Conejos and me to his office door. He held it open for us and then shut the door so it was us, no curtains. It was me and Conejos and Dr. Ostrander, a metal desk and chair, metal clock, metal cabinet, metal hospital bed. At first I didn’t notice the door to the narrow lawn and the street. It was hidden behind the metal bed. Conejos sat on the desk chair. His trousers bunched tight on his thighs, and he slid his hat off with one hand, then tapped the hat on his knee. He watched the doctor with his eyes nearly closed.
“I already know the question,” Dr. Ostrander said. “Missy told me when she called. I wish I could help you. I’d like to know what happened to your friend. I’d like to know why she left here with that hand wound.”
“You called her Glinda the Good Witch.”
“No, she called herself Glinda. That’s the name she gave. She was in shock. Aren’t you supposed to be at Paramount right now?”
“How do you know? Who told you?” My shoulders felt tight, my stomach, too. I should have been in Wally’s chair getting hair and makeup done. I should have been zipping a skirt designed by Miss Head. I should have looked forward to it all, but I didn’t. Thinking about my contract made my stomach hurt.
“I’m not going to tell you how I know. Let’s deal with your question, and then you need to leave.”
“I think Rosemary left here and saw someone outside, maybe coming out of your office.”
“You think. You don’t know.”
“Who was it? Who came out of your office?”
“Does it make a difference?”
“I don’t know.”
“I won’t tell you who was here,” Dr. Ostrander said. “I am on retainer. Do you know what that means?”
“You do whatever the studio wants,” I said.
“Yes, that’s about right. If I tell you, I will lose my job, everything. What you’re asking me to reveal goes against every oath I’ve taken, not to mention the confidentiality agreement I signed with Paramount.
“I do, however, feel I owe you. I am very, very sorry that I approved your brother’s physical. I had little choice. Now, given all I’ve just said, I won’t tell you that Bette Davis was in my office on Halloween night, she did not have difficulty recovering from a procedure, and she wasn’t picked up at three a.m. and driven home.”
“Bette Davis.”
“It wasn’t Bette Davis. She was not here on Halloween.”
“She had an abortion?”
“Of course not. Abortions are illegal,” Dr. Ostrander said. “Besides, she wasn’t here.”
Bette Davis. On the metal bed, in the metal room. “Who didn’t pick her up?”
“The usual driver who doesn’t pick up movie stars after their private procedures. Police of some kind. Young Mexican. Good-looking, nice enough, I guess. I’ve never talked to him.”
I looked at Conejos. “Joe.”
“Maybe,” he said.
But I knew. Beautiful Bette Davis, all eyes and deep voice, perfectly round vowels, the only star to wear red on camera, Best Actress, washed in klieg lights, that Bette Davis, blowing smoke from perfectly drawn lips, waiting at Hollywood Receiving for her ride. I knew it. I knew it. A huge star, Bette Davis. That’s who left the hospital on Halloween. Bette Davis steps out of the doctor’s office. Rosemary sees her. Joe drives up, Joe from Paramount, Joe from the Hollywood Division.
“Bette Davis isn’t Paramount,” Conejos said. “And Joe wouldn’t pick up a Warners star.”
“She’s a star. Maybe he was told to pick her up.”
“I can’t stay here. I have someone waiting.” Dr. Ostrander glanced at his metal clock. “I’m going. And you need to go, too. You belong to them now.”
“Them?” Conejos said.
“I’m late,” I said.
“But Joe wouldn’t pick up Bette Davis,” Conejos said. “This is the kind of clue I can’t stand. A movie star, okay, I get it. Rosemary leaves and sees a movie star, then has to disappear. It’s a stretch, but—okay. Why is Joe there? Joe is Paramount, and we’ve got a Warners star. It was middle of the night, so he’d be on duty at Hollywood Division. Everyone works Halloween, no cops get time off. He wouldn’t risk his job as a cop to wait next to the police station while he’s on duty and then pick up a star contracted to another studio. What’s in it for him?”
I said, “The night of Stany’s party he followed me from Holmby Hills back to the Gardens. He was on duty that night, too. He had the Hollywood Division squad car parked in Holmby Hills.”
“But that’s when you were a murderess,” Conejos said.
“I’m late.” No more questions. Joe did it. He waited for Bette Davis, he saw Rosemary come out of the hospital, and she saw Bette, too, and Joe took Rose and killed her.
“It’s not enough,” Conejos said.
“It’s all I get. Let’s go.”
“You don’t belong to them,” Conejos said.
True, I didn’t belong to them, but I would. In half an hour, I’d be Sheryl Lane with a wardrobe. Sheryl Lane, not Penny Harp. I’d be Sheryl Lane the actress, who had a little star power, not much but a little, maybe enough to get Joe fixed.
Dr. Ostrander opened the door to the emergency room. He began to walk through, but his hand kept hold of the doorknob. He stopped, paused, and looked back at me. “Now that you know the truth, what will you do with it?”
“Nothing,” I said. “I’ll get Joe fixed. Other than that, the truth doesn’t change a thing.”
Conejos stood and kicked his chair to the wall. “That’s because you’re missing a piece. Some piece of information that brings it together.”
“I understand,” Dr. Ostrander said. “I feel it all the time.” He smiled the big, saggy smile that made his chin disappear. “You have to rem
ember that Halloween was very busy. People hurt, screaming. After my patient left—”
“Bette Davis.”
“Or someone. I didn’t go outside. I handed her off, then came back through my office to the emergency room. I’m afraid I didn’t see a thing. Go out the side door, please. You weren’t here.” He smiled, and his chin disappeared. He shut the door hard.
People hurt, screaming. The hospital busy. I had to remember people were screaming.
Something jumped in my stomach. Something trickled through my fingers and arms. I couldn’t breathe. I saw Rose in my head, Rose at twelve, a hot July night, the air stinking, sulphur everywhere, in all our noses. Rose screaming by Will’s side, his ear a ripped mess. Rose, in shock, who screamed and screamed. Rose, who wouldn’t stop screaming, not when Teddy yelled at her, not even when he pushed her down.
No, I thought. Rose was twelve then, and she had a reason to scream. She’d just blown Will’s ear off, and she loved Will. She screamed because she loved Will. She had a reason. Why scream now? What had happened to Rose, what big thing—as big as thinking she’d killed the boy she loved, that he lay there bloody and gone—had made her scream?
And then I knew. I’d known all along, but in Ostrander’s office, I knew that I knew, I saw the whole thing like I sat there and watched it on film. I was the audience. I saw Rose in the emergency room, hugging her cut hand. I saw the helpful nurse come toward her. I saw Rose stand up and leave, I saw her walk outside, see Bette Davis, and scream. She wouldn’t have stopped, not when Joe yelled at her, not if he pushed her down. He’d have to take her away from the hospital, he’d have to. He wouldn’t know why she screamed, but I did. I knew.
“I can drop you at Paramount,” Conejos said. “We’ll get my car. If I use the siren, I can get you there fast.”
“Paramount. Right.” Star lessons and two years of paychecks. Hairstyle, makeup, movie star shoes. Film time. Night visits to Dr. Ostrander. And woven through it, too tight to separate, the reason Rose left the hospital, the reason she screamed. The worst that could happen. I knew why she’d screamed, the real story, a story that took place two years ago when Rose had just given birth and another helpful nurse came toward her and said, Give me your baby. That was a story Sheryl Lane would try not to believe.
“You want to drive yourself?”
“No,” I said.
Conejos had his mean detective face. “Then let’s go.”
“I don’t think I’m going.”
“Why not?”
My cheeks went hot. My nose ran, I rubbed my eyes. “You’ll think I’m a fool.”
“I probably will.”
“Rose had a baby a couple years back.”
“I know. I knew she’d given birth. I didn’t know when.”
“Right, the autopsy that didn’t happen. I can change the story of Rose’s death, I don’t mind, because I’ll know what really happened. I can get Joe fixed. But I can’t change why Rose screamed. I won’t. Sheryl Lane won’t like knowing, but I—me, Penny—I want to remember.”
“You’re no fool,” he said.
CHAPTER 41
For girls who want to play sirens in their private life, we recommend Marlene’s dress which she wears to the Navy dance on board a battleship, and the way she’s done her hair.
—Photoplay, November 1940
Where does a girl go when she’s missed her appointment with stardom? If she has any money, she might ride the elevator to the tea room at Bullock’s. She might order scones and champagne. If she’s broke, she could drive right back to Paramount and bang on the gate.
I went to the Florentine Gardens, to the Zanzibar Room, where a crew set up microphones, camera tracks, reflectors. I felt light, giggly, stomach-sick like I’d leaned over a high railing. I wasn’t upset or sad that I’d missed my appointment. I felt surprised that I wasn’t upset, and most of all, I felt relieved. I stepped over electrical cords and around the camera crew to where Granny sat at a far table.
“Dear God. Look who it is. Miles Abbott is frantic. He’s called everywhere, the police. We’re all searching. Sheryl, what have I done wrong? I try to help. I give you advice, but do you take it? Did you even look for new shoes? Like right now, I’m not sure you’re listening. Sheryl?”
“You had my room searched. You kept me talking, and all the while someone was in my room throwing clothes.”
“Of course I did. How do we know what you’re hiding up there?”
“Who told you to do it?”
“Sheryl, Sheryl,” he said. “I’d search rooms for any studio head, not just yours. You wouldn’t believe what Wally Beery hides in his trailer.” He patted my shoulder. “The good thing is, your room was okay. Now you scoot back to Paramount. There’s my girl.”
I kept walking to the stage door. I wasn’t scooting to Paramount or anywhere else. I was done. Straight to the dorms, up the stairs, to my room and Madge’s and Rosemary’s. A line of clothes divided our half of the room from the Career Girls’. On our half, kicked-around clothes, drawers pushed to one side of our bed. Piles of organdy, appliqués, winter white. On their half, a highboy in the corner, hairpins, and a Career Girl flat on the bed.
I squeezed Lorraine’s shoulder. “I need your help.”
“Mine?”
“You’re Lorraine, right?”
“Cree? What’s up? What’s the time?”
“Not time yet. Three hours until call. You’re fine. How are you?”
“Okay. I guess. Sore. Why are you asking? What’s wrong? Is it my mom? Oh, God. What’s happened?”
“I hereby make you Bull Girl, Lorraine. There’s your outfit.”
“Why’d you throw it in the corner? I’m Bull Girl? Where’s the horns? Why would you give up film time?”
“I won’t explain, and no, nothing bad will happen. I don’t want to be in the revue,” I said. “I’ll help you get ready.” My next surprise was that she let me. I set Lorraine’s hair with juice cans. We worked together to fix the bull hat strap. I rolled her hair on each side and let the rest fall in curls.
“If you’re watching the show, you should dress up,” she said. “Cameras will pan the audience.”
“I might not watch the show. I’m invited to Ciro’s.” I looked at my clothes heap. Madge’s blue dimity gown lay twisted on the bed. A hem of white sequins stuck up from the floor pile. Beside it, a pink chiffon sleeve made a puff. I tugged on the sleeve.
“I’ll wear this one. The pink.”
“Let me button you. What’s on your back? Did you get stabbed?”
“Old scars.” My gown had a chiffon train and lace on the bodice. I wanted to wrap the dress tight around me, I loved it so. “One more thing, Lorraine. Promise you’ll do one thing.”
“What’s the thing?”
“Promise. A real promise, not a Hollywood one.”
“I promise I’ll do the thing.”
“Throw these clothes away. Please. For me. Shove them in sacks and burn them. No, forget burning. Give them to Mexican hookers. I think they work Lexington and Vine. You can do that, walk up with some sacks of clothes and say, here.”
“All the clothes? I like that skirt with the plaid.”
“There’s a matching jacket, it’s lovely. Yes, all the clothes. Don’t keep any. Don’t try them on. Once you put them on, you’ll break your promise, I know.”
“Are the clothes jinxed?”
“Every one.”
“Then why are you wearing that gown? Isn’t the gown jinxed?”
“I’m already jinxed. So are the hookers.”
“I don’t get you. I mean, I never think about you at all, but right now, I don’t get why you’re throwing all these away. They’re better than anything I’ve got, or any girl in the dorm. Aren’t these your only clothes?”
“They’re mine, and Madge’s and Rosemary’s. Do you see now why they’re jinxed?”
“Who’s Madge and Rosemary?”
“Roll each one in a ball and hand it to
a hooker. You made an out-of-Hollywood promise.”
“I hereby promise to Cree Girl that I’ll take these gorgeous clothes and ball them up and throw them at hookers.”
“Not just any hookers, right?”
“Mexican hookers on Lexington and Vine.”
“Thank you. Thank you, Lorraine. How do I look?”
“I need to fix your mouth. Stand still. Don’t eat your lipstick, it’s so unbecoming. You should smoke instead. Claudette Colbert smokes red cigarettes, did you know? I heard everyone’s doing it. I wonder where you buy them. Okay, look at me. Twirl so I see the skirt. Oh. You don’t look like Cree Girl. You look . . . you look . . .”
“Like me, I hope.”
“But why look like you? Who are you?”
Some day, a month from now, I’ll be driving Madge’s car down Hollywood Boulevard and I’ll see Lorraine come out of the Gardens in a plaid skirt and jacket. She’ll look great. She’ll have kept a few clothes and shared some with the other Career Girl. They’ll march around town like movie stars, like Gloria Swanson walking her skinny dog. Then I’ll drive to Lexington and Vine, and all my hookers will line up in fabulous Irene designs, each one an original.
I took my pink gown to the Zanzibar.
CHAPTER 42
“Ah, oh,” she thought, “here’s the villain I’ve been warned about.” So she took to her heels.
—Photoplay, November 1940
The Gardens, bright and hot. Reflection screens, lighting cords taped to the floor. Granny a beach ball between crew and staff. Guests sweating, trying to eat beef. A director telling them, Don’t eat yet, didn’t I tell you not to eat, and the steak’s already cold. Joe stood behind it all, arms crossed, near the kitchen swing door, cigarette in his mouth, smoke making his eyes blink, his uniform brown and pressed, his mouth smiling, his eyes seeing me, blinking, his mouth in a frown. Joe could get away with Rose’s murder. I’d given up my chance to have him fixed. It was hard to ignore him. The Zanzibar was crowded with guests and picadors.
I felt like Rosemary, the beauty who got eyes stuck on her from door to hat check, Rosemary in pink; it must be how she’d felt each day. Penny Harp in pink. Miss Harp, who swishes past a murderer to the Zanzibar table with Marty Martin at one end and the Robert Taylors at the other.
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