Hollywood Lost

by Collins, Ace;

  “Yes, ma’am,” he hollered.

  “It’s in the storage room with the other clothes for that movie. Get the gown and the shoes.”

  As Mace rushed out, Minser looked back to Shelby, “Why can’t he move that fast all the time? Now get back in the changing room and wash your hair. Then, put on a robe and we’ll get started on your makeup. When we are finished with you, Joan Crawford will be spitting nails, and when you show up at the party, Miss Crawford will have more than just Jean Harlow stealing her thunder tonight.”

  44

  June 29, 1936

  As Dalton Andrews drove his Packard through the ornate twin metal gates and up the paved drive, Shelby nervously looked at the country club–like grounds and the huge stone mansion nestled in the middle of the circular drive. Surrounded by so much grandeur, she began to once more drown in her doubts. She feared she wouldn’t actually blend in well enough not to embarrass her date and therefore make a fool of herself.

  “Are you sure about this?” she asked the man behind the wheel of the long luxury convertible.

  “Absolutely,” he replied. “Just be yourself.”

  “That’s not going to work,” she warned. “Country bumpkins don’t fit in at the home of Fitzgerald Standhoff. I mean, this guy is the greatest director of all time.”

  “That’s the way he tells it,” Andrews chuckled, “and he will talk about his legacy for hours if you let him.”

  As the car stopped, Andrews pushed the Packard into neutral, opened the door and stepped out onto the drive. Meanwhile, on the other side of the vehicle, a uniformed man opened Shelby’s door and watched approvingly as she slid out of the car. When an admiring Andrews took her arm, he leaned close and whispered, “I think the servant likes your dress. He should be parking our car, but instead, he is still watching you.”

  “I think it’s too tight,” she noted fearfully.

  “It highlights all your good qualities,” he laughed, “but it’s also high-necked and long, so you have nothing to worry about. You look classy, not cheap.”

  A butler opened the mansion’s huge entry, and the pair stepped into a large foyer with polished stone floors, a twenty-five-foot ceiling, an enormous chandelier covered with so many lights it sparkled like diamonds and two twelve-foot-tall open walnut doors leading to a grand ballroom.

  “Wow,” she gasped.

  “Fitz always was a bit understated,” Andrews joked as he whisked her across the floor and through the doors to where the party was already in full swing.

  The ballroom sported five more chandeliers, floor-to-ceiling mirrors on one side of the room, and thirty-foot-tall windows on the other. The floor was marble, the walls white with inlays of dark walnut and the furnishings looked like something out of a French castle. At least two hundred guests were either milling around a fifty-foot-long buffet table, standing beside a thirty-foot-bar, or dancing to a full orchestra positioned on a bandstand larger than most New York theater stages.

  “Wait until you see the bathrooms,” Andrews quipped.

  Shelby’s gloved hand clung to her date’s arm as she studied a twelve-foot high fountain that seemed to be spouting out some kind of alcohol. Beside that was a round table supporting a white cake likely taller and definitely wider than she was. A four-foot wide, round gold bowl sat in the middle of the dance floor and from time to time someone would toss money into it.

  As she marveled at the mysterious actions playing out around her, she leaned close to Andrews’s ear and posed a question. “What is the purpose for this party?”

  He smiled, “It’s not a party, it’s a social event. It is where our host spends tens of thousands of dollars in order to raise a few thousand for soup kitchens.”

  “But,” she argued, “why not just give the money spent on the party to the kitchens? It would do so much more good.”

  “Because,” he explained, “the real reason for the event is to have a good time and pretend it is for a good cause. That makes it appear far more noble that just throwing a party for the sake of having fun.” After allowing that bit of illogic to settle in, he asked Shelby, “Would you like to dance?”

  “Sure.”

  As the pair whirled around the floor, Shelby took inventory of the royalty that had gathered for the event. Crawford, Dunne, Harlow, Stanwyck, and Colbert were just a few of the actresses decorating the room while Gable, Cooper, Brent, Tracy, Cagney, and Grant were among more than fifty tuxedo-clad actors holding court there.

  “Don’t be too impressed,” Andrews warned. “None of these people really want to be here. They’d much rather be at home. But it is expected they turn out for charity and for Standhoff.”

  “It’s amazing,” she sighed.

  “Maybe,” he groaned, “but to me it looks like Buckingham Palace collided with Barnum and Bailey and somehow created an over-the-top version of a high school prom.”

  To Shelby, there was so much to see and do that time flew by. Over the next two hours, she danced and made small talk with more than two-dozen actors. It seemed everyone wanted to dance with the wardrobe girl. She was still floating in the clouds when, at just past ten, Flynn Sparks cut in on William Warren. As he took Shelby into his arms, he flashed that perfect smile.

  “Aren’t you the belle of the ball?” the actor noted, as they glided across the floor.

  “I’m just being me,” she replied. “Who did you bring tonight?”

  “Sally Glenn.”

  “I thought she was married,” Shelby quickly noted.

  “Her husband doesn’t like parties,” Sparks explained, “and the studio thought it would be far safer for me to have someone who wouldn’t be tempted to come back to my place when this shindig concludes.”

  With no warning, a photographer, armed with a camera the size of a small suitcase, ran out onto the dance floor and yelled out, “Smile!” The flash that followed all but blinded Shelby.

  “See,” Sparks quipped, “you dance with the likes of Gable and Cooper, and no one notices. But when I take you in my arms, the press rushes out to record the moment for history.”

  “It will be little more than a footnote,” she mocked, looking for a way out of his grip.

  “You sell me short,” he bragged. “The only person in this room who doesn’t recognize who I am is you. And deep down, I think you know, but are scared to admit it.”

  As the song ended, Shelby pushed out of Sparks’s arms and made a harsh suggestion. “I think it’s time we both find our dates.” She pointed across the room, “Yours is over there and looks lonely. Good-bye.”

  Standing alone for the first time in almost three hours, she stood in the middle of the ballroom and studied the scene. Her gown, as tight as it was, was still one of the most modest at the party, and though she felt like a painted lady, she wore far less makeup than any other woman she saw. Almost everyone was either drinking or smoking or eating food she didn’t recognize. Though she’d gotten caught up in the moment, she now recognized she was out of place. She didn’t belong here and no longer wanted to be here. Why had she accepted the invitation?

  Needing a breath of fresh air, she noted doors that were opened onto a huge patio. Walking slowly in that direction she weaved past a couple of dozen different people and overheard tidbits of nine or ten conversations. Just before she got to the door she stepped by Ellen Rains, outfitted in a yellow dress and matching hat, and made it out into the warm, evening air. Standing by a three-foot-high stone wall and looking out at the huge swimming pool was her date. She wasted no time joining him.

  “Been a while since I’ve seen you,” she said.

  “I got tired of the small talk about nothing,” he answered. “You want a drink? I’ll be happy to get you one.”

  She shook her head, “I don’t drink.”

  “Oh, I know that, but I just wanted to see if you’d changed any over the past few hours.”

  “Why would I?” she demanded.

  He reached his hand to her chin and lifted it
until their eyes met. He then explained, “Because you’ve been getting so much attention that it made Joan Crawford sick enough she had to go home. Since you walked in no man in this place has been able to take his eyes off you, and most of the women hate you for being so beautiful. And every woman I’ve known who has experienced that is never the same again.”

  “If you’re asking,” she replied, “if I am going to throw the past away, the answer is no. No matter what those ads in magazines and on radio say, a dress does not make a woman. And dancing with Clark Gable doesn’t make me want to give up the morals my folks taught me and I heard preached about in church.” She smiled and looked back through the doors to the ballroom, “Don’t get me wrong, this is every little girl’s dream, but it didn’t turn my head or change my heart. If it had, then it would have only proven that my backbone and my mind are weak.” She winked, “Someday I’ll take you to an Oklahoma barn dance and show you what real fun is. Now, I’m ready to go home, if you are.”

  “I’ve been ready since before we got here,” he admitted. “But for two reasons I’m glad I came. The first is that I got to see you in that gown. The second is knowing that there is at least one person in this world who still treasures being real.”

  45

  June 30, 1936

  Ellen Rains sat in her swanky office and studied the photograph that had just been developed and printed. The shot was sharp, crisp, and perfectly framed, and the subjects were simply beautiful. If she’d owned a magazine, it would have been cover material.

  Satisfied the picture fit her needs, she glanced at her notes. The girl’s eyes were Carolina blue and her hair honey blonde. She was five-four and blessed with a Miss America body. She moved with both power and grace. Her voice displayed her Oklahoma roots, but her tone projected a rare confidence. She embraced her faith and held herself to high virtues.

  Rains moved her desk chair two feet until she sat in front of her typewriter. Picking up a sheet of paper, she rolled it into the machine and then placed her fingers on the keys. Within seconds, the room was alive with the song of a journalist at work. Ten minutes and three sheets of paper later, her story was finished. She read through it once before picking up her office phone and ordering her assistant to come in to see her.

  Susan Chontos, dressed in a brown suit and heels, knocked once before letting herself into the office. As Rains studied the photo for a last time, the ever-patient Chontos stood in front of the desk and waited.

  “Susan, let’s get this over to the Times for the afternoon edition. Tell them I want it played up big.”

  After taking the photograph and copy attached to it, Chontos scanned the story. “Miss Rains, you didn’t mention the woman’s name.”

  “I’m not going to yet,” the columnist explained. “We are going to build this one up this whole week. I want to start the focus with Flynn Sparks finding a new gal who has beauty, brains, and morals. In the past, most of his dates have only had one of those qualities. I’ll let you guess which one. Tomorrow, I’ll drop in the name of the mystery woman and the fact she isn’t an actress. I’ll add more as the week goes on.”

  “Sounds like you have the stories already written,” Chontos noted.

  “If the people at Galaxy do their part,” she admitted, “I do. Now hurry that over to the Times and tell them it needs to go out to every newspaper that runs my column. By tomorrow, I want fifty million people to have seen that photo. I want Flynn and this beautiful mystery woman to be the talk of the nation.”

  As her girl Friday left to run the errand, Rains eased back in her chair. For the next few days, she would be playing a very strange role. She’d be building up a big star rather than tearing one down. If her plan worked, by the following Sunday she’d recast Flynn Sparks as a former sinner turned saint and have created a hurdle so high that the cops would never be able to touch him for the murders.

  46

  June 30, 1936

  Bill Barrister sat at his desk and studied the information he’d just received on Wanda McMillan. Her child was named Ron; he was a good student who, over the past year, had settled into life with Bertha Kemp. Kemp had worked with McMillan for just over a year when the woman was given the child to keep for a week or two. Now, for all practical purposes the boy, who would be nine tomorrow, was hers.

  Regrettably, in their phone conversation, Kemp was able to give the cop just minimal information on McMillan. Wanda was a local girl, and her parents died a few years ago in a car wreck. She’d been a so-so student in high school and the word was that her morals were suspect. She was cute but not beautiful. She’d never married nor had she shared why it was so important for her to leave her son for a trip to Los Angeles.

  “What do you have?” Barry Jenkins asked as he strolled into the office, tossed his hat on a table, and sat down in front of his boss.

  “Very little,” Barrister admitted. “The woman who is still taking care of McMillan’s son tells me Wanda never mentioned knowing anyone on the West Coast. So who did she come to see?”

  “The killer?” Jenkins suggested.

  The captain shrugged, “Perhaps, but I’ve got another angle I need to work on. I called the Gary, Indiana, police to get me more information on McMillan’s son. They are running down that information now. I’m hoping a call will soon give us something to go on.” The words had no more than escaped his lips when the phone rang. The cop smiled and grabbed the receiver. “Barrister here.”

  “This is Jack Hurst in Gary. I’ve got the information you wanted, but I’m not sure what it means.”

  “Anything might help, so give it to me.”

  “I was expecting the son’s birth certificate to not list a father.”

  Barrister nodded, “As was I.”

  “But she did list a name. It was William Hamilton.”

  “Do you have any information on him?”

  “Barrister, before I called you I did some checking around. Drove over to the high school and looked at yearbooks. There was no William Hamilton that was in Wanda’s class and none in the four classes above or below her. There are three other William Hamiltons who live in this area, and none of them knew Wanda. In fact, they are not even the right age to have run into her. It would take weeks to run down all the William Hamiltons in this part of the state as well as those in Illinois and Michigan. We just don’t have the manpower to undertake a task like that.”

  “That’s OK, Jack, I have more than I did before your call. Did you run down any more information on Wanda?”

  “Based on the high school yearbook, she was attractive, but was not into very much. Her senior picture doesn’t list many clubs or activities. She grabbed a series of jobs after graduating, and her record at Montgomery Ward, where she was a secretary, was solid. She lived in a rental with her son. When she didn’t return from the trip, the man who owned the place waited a month, got rid of her stuff, and leased it to someone else. She didn’t go to church and didn’t have a crowd she ran with. She did date a lot of different men over the years, but never settled down with any of them. And that was all I was able to find out.”

  Barrister rubbed his head and looked toward his partner before posing one more question for the man who’d called. “Jack, are there any unsolved murders in your area that might have taken place in the past? They need to be cases where a woman or women were strangled.”

  “I’ve been on the force for twenty years,” the Gary cop explained, “and I don’t know of any in our city. There were a couple of society dames strangled in Chicago in the late twenties. Those murders were never solved.”

  “Interesting,” Barrister replied, “I’ll call the police there and get some more information on those cases. And Jack, could you send me a photo of Wanda from her high school yearbook?”

  “Sure, it might take a few days.”

  “That’s fine, and thanks for all your work. If you ever need anything from out our way, give us a call.”

  “You’re more than welcome; hope you
get the guy who did this.”

  Barrister set the phone back into the cradle and frowned. Picking up a pencil, he doodled on a piece of typing paper for a few moments before looking to his partner. “Barry, we need to find every William Hamilton in this part of the world and question them about Wanda McMillan. My guess is the father of the woman’s son moved here and somehow made a lot of money. When she found out, she was coming to Los Angeles to cash in.”

  “Blackmail?”

  The captain nodded, “If Hamilton is a successful businessman, if he has a family, if he is well-known, then he would want to hide an old affair that produced a son. People have been murdered for less.”

  “But how does that tie in with the others? If this was a murder to avoid blackmail then what was the motive in the others? Those appear more like thrill killings.”

  Barrister leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, “Barry, were you here when David Lane headed up homicide?”

  “I met him once or twice when I was rookie.”

  “After a while,” the captain explained, “the job got to him. It got to where he was carrying it home with him every night. One night he didn’t go directly home. Instead, he stopped by a bar and had the first drink in his whole life. He went back again the next night and the night after that. Soon, he couldn’t get through a day or a night without the booze. It cost him his job, his family and, one night, while out driving, his life.”

  “But,” Jenkins cut in, “what does that have to do with our case?”

  Barrister’s gaze fell from the ceiling to his partner, “Maybe our murderer killed Wanda to keep her quiet and found out he liked it. After that, something deep down in the far reaches of his mind demanded that he experience that feeling again. Like Lane had to have a drink, this guy has to watch women die.”