“You need anything, Mr. Andrews?”
The actor glanced to his left at Willard Mace. He was a funny kind of guy; a strong man with a mind that seemed to often run in slow motion. He tried so hard to get everyone to like him. Yet the big guy was such an odd egg and his social skills were so weak he just couldn’t quite seem to find anyone who’d give him the time of day. Andrews often wondered how Mace had even managed to land a job at Galaxy. There had to be thousands of unemployed people much more qualified for the job. And yet, he was here and a part of a team selling escape to people whose lives were ordinary and boring.
“No, thanks, Willie,” the actor answered. “I’m good.”
“I could get you some water,” the man offered. “It’s kind of hot in here.”
“If I need some,” Andrews assured him, “I’ll let you know.”
Standing off to one side, his eyes fixed on a buxom script girl standing beside director Vic Melton, Flynn Sparks leaned against one of the light stands. If he was feeling any pain about losing the bet, he didn’t show it. As Andrews studied the man who the studio painted in the press as “his best friend,” the actor couldn’t help but touch the handkerchief and run his index finger over the embroidered initials. What did Sparks do to Leslie? His mind slipped back to the notes he’d read in the police files. Were they right? Did the actor actually put his hands around Leslie’s throat and squeeze the life from her? If he did, was he also the man who murdered this girl on the beach? And if so, how in the world could he be so cool while reliving it now?
“Is everyone ready?” Melton called out from his chair just behind the lights and cameras.
The director’s words pulled Andrews back from being an amateur detective to playing the part of a real one. Moving to his mark just to the right of the girl’s head, he waited for Melton to get things moving.
“Let’s see if we can get this in one take. And we are making a change from the notes I gave you earlier. I see no use in shooting this from more than two angles. We’ll get it from Dalton’s perspective first and then from Flynn’s. Then we’ll just grab a couple of establishing shots to close things out.” He paused as Sparks walked across the sand to his mark and then added, “Miss Sharp, please don’t move. Now, lights, camera . . . action.”
“Strangled,” Sparks noted.
“Not a good way to go,” Andrews gruffly replied and then said it again for emphasis. “Not a good way to go at all. A man who does this wants to take his time and enjoy it. He has a lust to watch the life snuffed out of a body.”
“So,” Flynn playing Jenkins asked, “do you have any idea as to who we are looking for?”
Andrews pawed at the sand with his right foot, “In my thirty years on the force I have learned a few things. The first is never make guesses. But I can tell you this, and you need to hear it; the guy behind this murder is likely a madman.” Andrews, now wondering if he wasn’t spitting out dialogue to the person who might have committed this crime, was suddenly fueled with a real passion to make the lines written for him hit home. He wanted Sparks to hear them and understand the picture they painted. “This man is sick. He’s more animal than human. He plays with souls and lives as if he thinks he is a god. He likes what he is doing and likely replays the moments of this woman’s death over and over again.”
“So,” Sparks cracked, “we are looking for the Hollywood Madman.”
Andrews paused. If the other actor knew that the lines were directed at him, he certainly didn’t show it. Nodding and moving the scene forward, Andrews recited his next burst of dialogue. “Until we actually catch the guy, that is as good a name as any. Let’s make sure the crime scene boys get a lot of photos. You never know what we might need when this case comes to trial.”
Flynn’s eyes went to the body, “She was a pretty gal.”
“That makes it even tougher, Barry. A woman this beautiful had a future. She could have been an actress or a model, but the man who killed her cheated her out of all those things and more. I’ll make him pay for that or my name’s not Bill Barrister!”
With his jaw set, Andrews turned and moved off to the right. Flynn watched him and then turned his eyes back to the dead girl.
“Cut,” the director called out, “and we can print that one. Now, let’s move the camera to catch Flynn’s view.”
“Here’s some water, Mr. Andrews.”
After taking the glass, the actor responded politely, but with little emotion, “Thanks, Willie.”
As Andrews took a sip, Mace popped a question, “What’s Mr. Sparks doing?”
The actor looked back to the sand where he’d just been standing. A smiling Sparks was leaning over talking to the woman playing the body. “Willie, there is no doubt in my mind that Flynn is getting a date. That guy wears women on his arm like most of us wear wristwatches.” He took another sip of the clear liquid before handing it back to Mace. “Thanks. Now it’s time for me to get back to work.”
Walking over to Melton, Andrews stood to one side and looked at the set. The director glanced his way and asked, “Something on your mind?”
“Do you know Bill Barrister?” the actor asked.
“I’ve met him a time or two but never talked to him.”
“Well, Vic, I know the man. I sat behind him at the track and we visited. I can assure you of this . . . the lines they have written for me sound nothing like the man I know. Barrister is not vindictive, he’s not trigger-happy, and he doesn’t spit out lines that sound like they came out of a George Raft film. We aren’t doing the man justice.”
Melton smiled, “You’re right, but he is also not good looking, thin and tall, so it is a wash. It’s time we get the second shot, and then we’ll move back to the station set for a couple of scenes setting up where they find the next body.”
Andrews had made his point and lost. That was fine. At least he felt good about trying. Now it was time to go back to playing a part the way it was written and trying to forget his costar might also be a madman.
30
June 22, 1936
Shelby did a full turn in front of the mirror and grinned. This suit, made for a movie that wrapped three weeks ago, was the nicest thing she’d ever worn.
“It goes with your eyes,” Betsy Minser noted. “Just the perfect blending of blue. And it fits your figure like it was tailored for you. Now we just need some stockings and pumps. What size shoes do you wear?”
“Seven.”
“That will be easy,” the woman assured her. “I’ll get those and be right back.”
“You look really nice!” Willard Mace exclaimed as he walked in through the door leading to the sewing factory. “Now, you really are the most beautiful woman on the lot.”
Shelby pushed her honey blonde hair from her shoulders and studied her reflection more closely in the mirror. She couldn’t believe the woman she saw. There was no hint of the Cordell, Oklahoma, farm girl showing right now.
“Why are you all dressed up?” Mace asked.
“It seems that my measurements are the same as Miss Foster’s, and Betsy opted to have me try on one of the dresses from Darkness Is Light. I might become a human dress form. I guess Miss Foster is so busy, the studio is looking for a way to cut some corners and save her some time.”
Mace’s eyes locked on Shelby, “I remember that outfit. She never looked that good in it.” He paused and giggled, “And I guess I know your measurements now too. I have memorized all the facts on the actresses.” His tone and smile indicated he was very proud of that fact too.
Shelby turned and frowned at the man. She wasn’t sure she wanted him or anyone knowing those details. Especially when it concerned her.
“Got the shoes and the stockings,” Minser announced as she strolled back into the room. “This will complete the outfit.”
The seamstress-turned-model shook her head, “I can understand wearing the shoes to check out the way it looks on the body, especially the hips, but why the stockings?”
“Because,” Minser explained, “I’m rewarding you for your hard work, and also because having you being Miss Foster’s size will save us a lot of overtime. And, as I understand you have a date tonight, the outfit and shoes are yours to keep.”
Shelby’s mouth dropped, “I couldn’t.” Though every fiber in her body assured her she needed to accept this generous gift.
“Actually,” the woman corrected her, “you can. And as I make the rules in this part of the world, you will. But to really look good, we need to do something with your hair and makeup. Follow me.”
“But I have work to do,” Shelby argued, though her tone showed she wasn’t going to put up much of a fight.
“You’re days ahead on everything,” Minser replied, “and it is quitting time, anyway. Now follow me.”
31
June 22, 1936
A waiter dressed in a white shirt and black dinner jacket escorted Shelby and Dalton Andrews to a round booth about forty feet from the bar. After they were seated, the short man with the thin mustache asked, “Would you like something to drink? Might I suggest a martini?”
Shelby looked to her date and shook her head.
“Are you sure?” Andrews asked.
She studied her date, dressed in a dark blue, pinstriped suit and looking every bit as handsome as his studio portraits, before announcing, “I don’t drink.”
The words had barely come out of her mouth before the waiter frowned.
“Do you mean you don’t drink or you haven’t drunk?” Andrews asked.
“Both,” she assured him.
“Would you like a Coke?” the actor inquired.
“As long as there’s nothing in it.”
“We’ll have two Cokes,” Andrews announced, “and don’t worry, Cosmo, I’ll tip you just as if we’d downed a bottle of your best champagne.”
“Thank you, sir. And what about the meal?”
The actor glanced over to his date, “Do you see anything you like?”
“I’m overwhelmed,” she replied. “What do you suggest?”
“Cosmo, bring us the Manhattan steaks, boiled potatoes, carrots, and, of course, your famous bread.”
“How do you want the steaks?”
“Shelby, it is up to you.”
“Medium.”
Andrews flashed a smile, “The beautiful woman in blue wants hers medium, as do I.”
“As you wish, sir.”
After the waiter strolled off toward the kitchen, Andrews turned his attention back to his companion. “I meant to say something earlier, but words escaped me. It looks like you’ve been shopping, and that might be the most stunning suit I’ve ever seen.”
“Actually,” she corrected him, “you’ve seen the suit before. In fact, you actually kissed Betty Foster when she wore it in a scene you shot a few weeks ago.”
“It didn’t look that good on her,” he shot back. “If it had, I’d have never been able to remember my lines.”
“There you go sounding like Flynn Sparks again.”
“No, seriously, I mean it. You really are the most beautiful woman on the lot, and this proves it. And the best part about it is that you’re real.”
Shelby grinned, “You put a lot of value on the ‘real’ element.”
“It’s rare around these parts,” he explained.
“So how’s the new movie?” she asked.
“I can’t talk about it.”
She raised her eyebrows, “It’s that bad?”
“No, the whole thing is hush-hush, and I can’t say anything about the script.” He chuckled. “Here’s an irony, I can’t talk about it because what we are shooting is real. So in other words, I can talk about anything at Galaxy except the truth.” His eyes scanned the restaurant. “Shelby, look over to your right. Now don’t stare, just kind of glance over and tell me who you see.”
“That’s Cary Grant,” she quickly answered.
“And Norma Shearer is in the next booth. With her is her husband, Irving Thalberg. Outside of the business, there are not many folks who know his name, but he’s one of the most powerful men in Hollywood. The man eating with them is David O. Selznick. Folks often joke about him by saying, ‘The son-in-law also rises’ because he is married to Louis B. Mayer’s daughter. Folks think the marriage gets him a lot of movies around town, but in truth, he’s that good.”
Andrews’s eyes flashed to the other side of the room. “There’s a guy sitting at the back booth who you may not know now, but you will. His name is Humphrey Bogart. Warner Brothers brought him out here after he garnered some success on Broadway. He can act better than any newcomer I’ve ever seen. If he can get just a small break, he’ll be one of the best-known people in the world. He played Duke Mantee in the Bette Davis movie The Petrified Forest. He was amazing in that part!”
“A bit different from the folks sitting around us on our first date,” she noted as she studied some of the other faces in Musso and Frank’s Grill. Franchot Tone was sitting at a table with Joan Crawford, and Bette Davis was visiting with a man she didn’t recognize. Near the front were Joan Blondell and Dick Powell. And just five tables over was a star she’d actually met. “I see Flynn has a new date tonight.”
Andrews frowned and craned his neck to the left. “That would be a bit player he met this morning. Her name is Agnes Sharp. This was her first day on the set, and he moved in on her faster than a vulture that had spotted a dead rabbit.”
“The way she’s fawning over him,” Shelby noted, “I’m guessing she’s enjoying herself. Back home we’d say she landed in high cotton.”
“She’s landed somewhere,” he grumbled.
She sensed that Andrews was in no mood to be teased about Flynn Sparks. So rather than push it, she made a suggestion. “Let’s change the subject.”
“I would love to,” he replied.
As his eyes returned to their table, she shyly grinned, “Thanks for the radio.”
“What radio?” he asked.
“So we are going to play it that way?”
“Play what?”
Shelby placed her elbows on the table, clasped her hands, and rested her chin atop her fingers. “The radio that some unknown person sent to us has made our little home a lot happier. Mom’s not as homesick or lonely now that she has something providing some background noise. She’s already hooked on a couple of soap operas and quiz shows.”
“Do you listen to it?” he asked, his eyes almost dancing as he waited for her response.
She nodded, “Mainly music. My range of knowledge in that area has increased tenfold. I think my favorite song this week is ‘Robins and Roses.’ ”
“By Bing Crosby,” Andrews chimed in. “I play golf with him from time to time, and we often go to the race track together. A nice guy, but I’m amazed a man whose ears are that big can generate the box office he does. He gets twice the mail I get.”
“So,” she teased, “we are going back to judging people on their appearance again?”
“And Shelby, if I were, you’d be the most beautiful woman in this room.”
“You’re starting to sound like Flynn,” she warned.
The actor glanced away from Shelby and back to Flynn. “Let’s remove him from this conversation.”
“If you’re worried about me going out with him,” she explained, “I shot him down today. I think he’s attractive and there’s no doubt he and Gable are considered the hottest things in town, but it would be hard to take a man seriously who has already met the love of his life.”
Andrews looked back at Shelby, his face spelling out his obvious confusion. “Well, it’s not the blonde over there. So who is it?”
“Flynn loves Flynn, and there is no room in his world for him to love anyone else. Any woman who can’t see that is either a fool or a person angling to use her connection to him to get a career boost. Any guesses on what tonight’s date is after?”
“The latter,” he quickly replied.
“And,” she added, “I’m aft
er neither. So don’t waste your time trying to reuse old lines from your movies to make me believe I’m special. I know who I am.”
“But you are beautiful,” he argued.
“I can look in a mirror and see that,” she agreed. “But roses are beautiful for a little while, and then they fade in the presence of newer, fresher flowers. But there is something you need to understand. I like you, I really do, but I’m not sophisticated enough to share quips with Claudette Colbert or swap stories with Carole Lombard. When it comes to the big picture, I’m not in it. But if you want a friend, someone you can pal around and be real with, then I’m your girl.”
“Good a place as any to start,” he reasoned, “but you underestimate yourself in a lot of different ways. I’ve been to those parties and the women pretty much talk about recipes, shopping, and music; that is, when they are not playing the Hollywood game.”
“I could do the talking,” she assured him, “but I’m not equipped to play the game.”
“You might change your mind,” he suggested.
“I hope not. Now, I think that’s our dinner on the way. And even in this city of make-believe, I’ll bet that steak’s real.”
32
June 22, 1936
Andrews walked Shelby to the door just after eleven. This time he didn’t ask for a kiss, but just took one. It was a bit longer and less tentative than the last one. She stood on the porch watching him drive away before glancing up to the sky. Maybe it was because of the city lights, but there seemed to be only half as many stars in the California night as there had been in Oklahoma. As she searched for the Big Dipper, she unconsciously began humming a tune.
“I heard that on the radio today,” her mother announced as she stepped out the door.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” Shelby quickly answered. “I didn’t mean to bother you.”
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