“What are you yapping about now?” the studio boss demanded.
“Jacob, think of this, the public loves crime movies. Well, why not give them one based on something lurid and real?”
Yates’s dark eyes lit up just a bit and he seemed to catch at least a part of the woman’s vision. Leaning forward he waited with bated breath for her to continue.
“Imagine,” she smiled, “a movie based on a true-life case the cops are trying to keep quiet.”
“It might work,” he admitted. “Let me think about it.” He paused and looked toward the ceiling. “The legal issues are troubling. We might be sued.”
She raised her eyebrows, “You have a law degree; do you think Galaxy would lose if that happened?”
He shook his head, “This would be factual stuff, nothing would be made up and we’d be safe.”
“So,” she added, “any lawsuits would actually generate more ticket sales. Because you would be the only one getting the real police information and because you would have information the newspapers didn’t have access to, you would have the inside track to providing the public with the only real story almost as it happens.”
Yates leaned back in his chair and put his feet back on his desk. After taking another puff from his cigar, he looked back to his guest. “Let’s say I agree to do the movie and you pump the information to me, what’s your price? You don’t do anything for free, not even for an old friend like me.”
“We are much more than just old friends,” Rains noted, “And don’t you ever forget that.”
“How can I?” he grumbled.
“I want to make some money,” she admitted, “and it won’t be chump change. But I don’t want my name on the project.”
“Why not?” he demanded. “Not taking credit for something is not like you at all.”
“In this case,” she smiled, “it means I put more money in my pocket.”
“How’s that?”
“I want 10 percent of the action,” Rains explained. “Beyond the information I can get you on the case, I will also feed the public the noble reasons you’re making the movie. I will make you sound so good that, if you’d switch your faith, a certain church leader might make you a saint.”
“How are you going to do that?” Yates asked. “Right now, I’m ahead of Jack Warner and Louis B. Mayer in the race for Hollywood’s top tyrant.”
The woman smiled, “You are making this flick in order to properly remember the women killed by the Hollywood Madman.”
“The Hollywood Madman?”
“That’s what I’m going to call the murderer.”
“A bit gruesome,” Yates suggested, “but it does have box office appeal.” He put the cigar down, pulled his feet to the floor, leaned forward and placed his elbows on the desk. “I’m guessing that if I don’t go along with this, you will tie the murders to the studio every day for weeks.”
“For years,” she replied as she picked up her hat and set it atop her auburn hair. “Do we have a deal?”
“You didn’t have to blackmail me to get it,” he added. “This really is a can’t-miss project.”
“I know,” she gleefully announced as she grabbed her purse and stood. “But doing it this way was so much more fun.” She grinned, “Now, I’ll have copies of all of the case files in a couple of days and get them over to you. Good-bye, Jacob.” She was almost to the door when Yates’s voice stopped her.
“Ellen, do you have any information that someone from my studio might be this Hollywood Madman?”
She turned and slyly smiled, “No, darling, do you?” She didn’t wait for an answer before waltzing out the door.
5
June 12, 1936
What do you think?” Mary Beckett asked as she moved the last box of possessions off their truck and into the tiny house. Her daughter could tell the woman was trying hard to be positive, though the lilt in her voice proved she was anything but. She didn’t want to be in Los Angeles and she was already homesick for Oklahoma.
From her place in the back of the truck, Shelby had seen prairies, mountains, and deserts. Now the young woman who’d always lived in the country was surrounded by a city too large for her to even comprehend and the neighbors were so close she could almost reach out and touch them. The sounds of nature had been replaced by man-made noise. Yet as loud as Los Angeles seemed, she was sure she could still hear her mother’s heart breaking.
“It’s nice, Mom,” Shelby lied.
It was small, only about eight hundred square feet, with a bedroom, combined kitchen and living area, and bath. It certainly beat living in a tent along the side of the road as they had since leaving their Oklahoma farm, but, in truth, it was only a modest step up. And with twenty other similar bungalows stacked all around them, it was going to be difficult for folks used to the wide-open spaces to adjust to the lack of privacy. Still, Mary did her best to spin things in a bright light.
“I mean, we can walk to a market, and Shelby, you won’t have to chop wood for the stove, this one plugs right in. And it has two burners!”
“It’s wonderful, Mom; things will be just fine.”
Mary nervously smiled as she looked around the tiny home, “I know we don’t really know anybody here, but folks are folks and we’ll find friends.” She paused, her eyes misting, “You know, I’ve never lived someplace where everyone didn’t know me. Might be nice to make new friends.” She picked a towel out of a box and began to fold it. “I’m sorry you don’t have a room of your own.”
“We’ll get something bigger down the road,” her father chimed in as he stepped through the entry. “And it shouldn’t take long either. My cousin Stew just stopped by and he got me that job in the woodworking shop at . . .” He paused, “What did they call that business where he works, Mom? It is kind of important I know that. Let me see . . .”
“Galaxy,” she reminded him. “It was Galaxy Studios. It’s the place they make all those moving pictures that folks talk about. Maybe, with you now making regular money, we can go to them again. It’s been three years since we saw a movie.”
“Sure, we’ll be able to,” John chimed in. “We’ll see as many as we want. As we drove into the city it seemed to me like they had a picture house on every block. Once, at a stop sign, I even smelled the popcorn. There’s nothing like popcorn at a movie.”
The woman used the towel to dab at her eye. “Must have some dust in it. When do you start, Pa?”
“Monday,” he answered, his voice filled with obviously false enthusiasm. “Good pay too. I’ll be pulling down seven dollars a day. I wasn’t making that in a week back home.”
“That’s good, Pa,” Shelby assured him. “You deserve that and a lot more. You’ll be running that place before you know it.”
John forced a smile and put his hands onto the straps of his bib overalls, “When I told Stew you were the best seamstress in your homemaking class and how you’d worked for three years doing that at Maybelle’s, he suggested I take you along on Monday too. They’re looking for folks to create costumes in the wardrobe department. They’re making so many pictures they just can’t keep up.”
“I’d like that,” Shelby assured him. “I want to pull my weight.”
Mary looked from her daughter to her husband, “She should be going to college, John. It’d be a crying shame if she didn’t use those brains of hers.”
He shrugged, “I know, but that will have to come a bit later. Got to get on our feet first.” The man glanced around the home and nodded, “For the moment, we have to concentrate on the good news. We have a way to make a living here; we didn’t have that back in Oklahoma. And we have a roof over our heads and we were about to lose ours back home.”
“Let’s finish unpacking these boxes,” Mary suggested, “and then I’ll make some supper. Been a long day!”
Shelby picked up a box of dishes and cookware and headed for the cabinets by the sink. As she opened the lid and reached in to fish out a plate, her mother sidled up
beside her.
“What are you thinking about?” Mary softly asked.
“Nothing.”
As her mother opened a cabinet and placed glasses and cups on shelves, she mused, “Guess every girl in the country dreams about coming to Hollywood. And as pretty as you are and as good as you were in those high-school plays, you might just find a place for yourself out here. You might be discovered and be somebody those magazines write about.”
“Mom, I’d rather just be in Oklahoma.”
“Don’t let your father hear that,” Mary warned. “He already feels like a failure. So we have to act like we are happy to be here, even if we aren’t. We can’t show we’re homesick. We just can’t.”
“I know,” Shelby quietly replied. “But I don’t want to be a star. I never dreamed about that.”
“What did you dream about?” the woman asked. “Until now I never thought to ask you that.”
Shelby put another plate in place and looked out the small window over the sink. She studied two boys kicking a tin can back and forth before looking down the street toward a billboard advertising a movie starring Clark Gable, Myrna Loy, and Jean Harlow.
“I never dreamed I’d be here,” Shelby sighed. “Guess I just thought I’d get married and raise a family. Maybe live in a small town, clean, cook, sing in the church choir, and sit by the radio with a family around me listening to music.”
“Those aren’t dreams,” Mary cut in. “That’s reality, except for the radio part. We’ve never had one of those.” She paused, holding a cup in her hand and shook her head, “Maybe it’s my fault you never dreamed big. I never encouraged it. I pretty much taught you to just do your best and let the chips fall where they may. Guess I was just too caught up in living to encourage you to dream.”
“It’s not your fault,” Shelby assured her, “I was born a realist. I knew what I had and I was smart enough to realize what I could never have.”
“Shelby, it doesn’t hurt to dream. Sometimes that’s all that keeps us from choking on reality.” The woman sadly glanced to the other side of the room; as she did, Shelby continued to look at the billboard. Mary sighed, “Even when our life was crumbling, I kept dreaming we’d strike oil and we’d be rich. I dreamed of building a huge mansion on the place and of having a big car. I dreamed about getting our own radio and maybe a record player too. I kept dreaming that until the day the bank foreclosed on us.”
“But,” Shelby pointed out, “didn’t it hurt even more when the dream didn’t happen? Shouldn’t we just accept who we are and where we came from and live in that world?”
“I don’t know,” Mary admitted as she walked back to the other side of the room to get another box.
Shelby looked down at Rex who was now sitting at her feet. If he missed the fields to run in or the familiarity of the dirt roads around the old place, he didn’t show it. So maybe things would be better here. Maybe there was a chance in California for her to be more than she ever thought possible. Maybe she’d get that job at the studio and some producers would see her working on a dress and make her the next big star. And maybe, just maybe, writers like Ellen Rains would be penning stories about Shelby Beckett. But no matter what happened she was still going to be the same girl she’d always been. She’d be honest, straightforward, and direct. She’d be true to herself no matter what. Nothing and no one was going to change her.
6
June 12, 1936
Cut! That’s a wrap.”
Because of lighting issues the day ran long. It was past seven and the cast and crew were more than ready to call it a week. As most hurriedly headed for the exits, Flynn Sparks casually stepped between a beautiful, dark-haired actress and the door.
“You’ve got something,” Sparks announced. He smiled and leaned closer before adding, “You’re a cut above most of the actresses who roll in here. You’re not going to be playing background parts for long. Within no time, the newspapers will be writing about you.”
The shy, doe-eyed actress grinned, “Thank you, Mr. Sparks.”
“Call me Flynn.”
Her eyes lit up as if she’d just been given a new car, “OK, Flynn.”
Placing his right hand gently on Leslie Bryant’s shoulder he locked his almost black eyes onto hers and posed the question of the moment. “What are you doing this evening? As I’m sure you and I are going to be working together often, I thought it would be nice if we got to know each other over dinner. There’s a place just off the strip where the prime rib just melts in your mouth and the orchestra plays romantic tunes that will make your heart flutter.”
“It sounds awfully nice,” she replied, her large, brown eyes still looking into his, “but I’m supposed to eat with my mother tonight.”
“I bet you’ve had a thousand meals with your mother,” he whispered, his lips now just inches from hers, “and there will likely be a thousand more, but you’ve never eaten with me and having missed out sharing a dinner with you is one of my life’s greatest regrets. Don’t you think you could alter your plans?”
She stepped back, took a deep breath, and shook her head, “I’d really rather be with you than doing anything else. But it’s Mom’s birthday and I couldn’t cancel. I’m all she’s got. So, I’m sorry.”
Sparks took his hand from her shoulder, pushed his fists into his pants’ pockets and cracked a smile. With his eyes still locked firmly on to hers, he allowed the petite woman to bask in that moment, sure that his good looks and charm were working their magic, before breaking the silence.
“We’re the only two left on the set.”
“I guess we are,” she whispered. “It’s kind of scary.”
Sparks brought his hands from his pockets to her arms as an already nervous Bryant glanced to the left and right. He could feel her tense as his fingers gently squeezed.
“Leslie,” he more breathed than said, “we will always remember our first time alone. Maybe it’s the way you fill out that dress or perhaps it’s the melody that springs from your lips when you speak, but my heart’s trying to run up my chest and push into my throat. My brain is alive too. It’s telling me that if I’m not careful I could drown in those eyes of yours. I sure hope you’re ready to save me.”
Simply by quoting lines taken from one of his movies, he had her exactly where he wanted. The actress went limp in his grasp. Now it was time to stray from Hollywood scripts and try something he’d written and used so many times he had these lines memorized as well. “Leslie, there is a view from my patio of the whole city. At night, the lights look like stars. It is almost magical. But I don’t even see it when I’m alone. I have to share it to really enjoy it, and I only share that view with someone whose heart beats as one with mine. And I can feel ours beating together right now.”
“I’ll bet it’s wonderful,” she whispered. “The view, that is. And I never knew that hearts could beat in time with each other.”
He grinned as he realized her resolve was melting. Dalton Andrews’s Packard was almost his. So he leaned closer and said, “I’ll admit to being a bit selfish. You see, with the little free time I have, I rarely share my life, much less my home, with anyone. But they say tonight is going to be clear, and it would be a crime if I didn’t introduce that view to you. I don’t think I could ever forgive myself for not giving you that scene as a gift.” He pulled to within a inch of her face, “So, won’t you reconsider?”
“I want to,” she admitted. “I really do, but I planned the party for my mom. She rode a train clear from Alabama to visit me. This is her last night in California. She goes back east tomorrow. I couldn’t desert her on her last night here. I might not see her again for who knows how long. But I do hope you will forgive me.”
“On one condition,” Sparks replied.
“What?”
“That you let me take you to dinner tomorrow night and we end the evening by taking in the view.”
“I guess I could do that,” she whispered. “I mean, if it means that much to you.
”
Sparks leaned forward and brought his lips to her. She melted into his arms. By the time he ended the kiss and broke the embrace Bryant’s legs were so wobbly she could barely stand. While she breathlessly swayed, her feet glued to the floor, he smiled, turned, and walked toward the door. He stopped as he neared the exit and slowly spun around. “I’ll need your address.”
She nodded, “Hollywood Arms Apartments—number eight.”
“I’ll pick you up at seven,” he assured her. “Have fun at your party tonight.”
The trap was set and he was confident Leslie Bryant would take the bait. So before the sun set on Sunday, Dalton Andrews’s V-12 Packard would be his. And while the car was nice, watching Andrews’s expression as he handed over the keys would be even sweeter.
7
June 13, 1936
There were plenty of unsolved murders in Los Angeles, the homicide files were overflowing with them, but the quartet of women who had been so cruelly strangled set them above all the others on the bureau’s priority list. In fact, these four crimes were so disturbing that they kept Bill Barrister awake at night and gave him indigestion during the day. It had been a year since the first one, and he was no closer to identifying who was responsible. So even though he was dog-tired and normally spent Saturdays with his kids, today the cop was working unpaid overtime in the police lab. Somewhere in what they knew about the murders there had to be a clue they were missing.
“What’s going on, Cap?”
Barrister lifted his nose from the file long enough to nod toward a smiling cop. Yancey Caldwell was a tall, blocky, thirty-year vet who’d never wanted anything more than to wear a uniform and be a regular policeman. Maybe it was this lack of ambition that was the secret to the sparkle in his brown eyes and that perpetual smile framing his face.
“Yance,” Barrister wearily asked, “are you ever unhappy?”
“Bill, I’ve got the best reason in the world to be happy.”
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