Hollywood Lost

by Collins, Ace;

  “It’s all Leslie Bryant’s fault. If she’d lived a couple of more days, they wouldn’t be punishing me the way they are. I even think the cops are following me. I think they are watching my every move.”

  “Flynn, what makes you think that?”

  “Everywhere I go I see people that look like policemen, and they seem to be watching me.”

  “You’re a star,” Shelby pointed out, “everyone knows you. So naturally when people see you, they stare.”

  As he guided the powerful car around a curve he shrugged, “Maybe, but even if you’re right, Yates has me on a leash. He’s not even letting me take women to my house. If he finds any girl there, he is going to fine me. I had to let my maid go and she is sixty!”

  Shelby tried unsuccessfully to stifle a smile as she quipped, “I think you’ll live.”

  “It’s like being a priest,” he complained. “And speaking of that, there is this church thing. Not only do I have to pose for pictures, give interviews, and memorize Bible verses that were supposedly my favorites as a child, but I have to be there not just this week, but every week.”

  “Yeah,” she laughed, “that hour or two each Sunday is going to kill you.”

  “And then there is the media attention,” he moaned, “Did you see this morning’s paper?”

  “No.”

  “There’s one behind the seat, take a look. There are four pages of photographs of you and me together. The story makes us sound like we’re about to get married. I mean, you’re the only woman in the world who won’t let me kiss you, and they have us practically engaged. What kind of a cruel joke is this? How can I get a woman interested in me when the press is printing this kind of garbage?”

  She raised her eyebrows, “I thought you wanted to go out with me!”

  “I did,” he spat, “and I still do. But I am not interested in marrying you. And when folks think we are an item, it messes up my love life.”

  Shelby grabbed the copy of the Times and glanced through the text. She quickly discovered she was quoted in the story about how close she and Sparks had become. “My word,” she moaned. “They have me as your spiritual guide, the love of your life, and the woman who has tamed the playboy! I never said those things.”

  “Now you know how things operate,” he suggested. “The publicity department makes up whatever it takes to frame their stars in the best light possible.”

  “But,” she complained, “I’m not a star.”

  “Yeah,” he shot back, “try telling that to millions who see you as the woman who is causing Hollywood to look at its sins and back away from them. It won’t be long before they’ll tag you as Saint Shelby.”

  Sparks suddenly smiled, “This might work out all right. You can actually date me. People will see it as nothing more than a prayer session, and Yates will not care if you go to my place. I’ll finally get to show you the view and, once you’re there, you’ll likely be wooed enough to enjoy at least some of my charms.”

  “Yeah,” she cracked, “you just keep on dreaming.”

  He smiled, “We’ll see.”

  The rest of the twenty-minute drive to her house was made in silence. As the car stopped out in front of the Becketts’ bungalow, Sparks reached to the passenger side of the Auburn, wrapped his hand around Shelby’s neck and roughly pulled her lips to his. She didn’t have time to react. When he finally released her and dropped his arm to his side, he grinned, “I’ll see you in church.”

  Still stunned, Shelby opened the door and stepped out into the grass. Wide-eyed, she watched the Auburn’s taillights as they disappeared into the night. In a matter of just four days, she’d lost complete control of her life.

  51

  July 4, 1936

  Somewhere in the night, kids were shooting off firecrackers and a radio was playing patriotic tunes, but, as she stood motionless in the darkness, Shelby didn’t hear any of it. She was still trying to comprehend what had just happened. As she turned the events of the night over in her head, a hand grabbed her shoulder and whirled her around.

  “I thought you said this was Yates’s idea.”

  Even in the dark it was apparent that Dalton Andrews’s face was flushed, his expression angry, and his eyes on fire. His rage was made even more apparent by his digging his fingers into her shoulders so deeply it hurt.

  “Dalton, what are you doing here?”

  “Watching the show,” he snarled. “And what a show it was.”

  “Are you talking about the kiss?”

  “What else?”

  “Flynn sprung that on me,” she snapped. “We hadn’t so much as held hands up until then.”

  Andrews dropped his hands from her shoulder and shook his head. “Great story. I read the papers. I saw all the pictures. I read what you said. When are you heading to Reno to get hitched?”

  Shelby vigorously shook her head, as if that would help soothe the angry man, before pleading, “I didn’t say any of those things in that article. I didn’t even know about the story until Flynn showed it to me.”

  “How many autographs did you sign today?” he demanded.

  “I don’t remember,” she admitted. “And I don’t know why people asked me for them. I work in wardrobe.”

  He laughed, “Wake up, the studio is grooming you for two things. The first is as a tool to keep Sparks out of jail. The second is to create the ultimate story of a girl who sews dresses being discovered and transformed into Hollywood’s new All-American girl. They have their hooks into you now. How long before you really become one of us? How long before you take your high and mighty ways and throw them in the trash?”

  “Dalton, how can you even suggest that?”

  “Because I’ve seen it happen a thousand times. Girls come out here with virtue and trade it for a shot at stardom. A few make it, but most wind up in either the gutter or the grave.” His eyes flashed, “Look at Leslie Bryant, she was just like you. She could sing hymns and quote Scripture. She cherished her morality and clung to her values. Then I saw her sleeping in Flynn Sparks bed, and believe me, that’s the gutter. And later that day, she bought her ticket to the grave. How long before you go down that same path?”

  His words so stung that Shelby didn’t stop to consider what she was doing. Pulling her hand back, she brought it hard against his face. The resulting noise was so loud it echoed off the street.

  It only took a second for Andrews to react, reaching out with his hands and grabbing the woman by the throat. He left them there for a moment, but he never tightened his grip. A second later, he dropped his arms to his side, turned and slowly walked off into the night, leaving Shelby confused, hurt, and frightened.

  52

  July 5, 1936

  Just like any other Galaxy production, the first service in the white church on the studio lot started on time, and each well-rehearsed element went off without a hitch. With Jacob Yates beaming from the back room and the Mutual Radio Network taking the service into millions of living rooms all across the nation, the choir sang “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God,” the congregation, which included more than fifty actors and actresses, came together on four well-known and much-loved hymns, Flynn Sparks read Scripture from the book of Matthew, and Reverend Chance gave a moving message on the Sermon on the Mount. From her assigned seat on the first row next to Sparks, Shelby watched the fans that’d won tickets to the performance. Few seemed to pay much attention to anything but the stars that’d been assigned to fill pews.

  The dinner on the ground was just as well organized. There were matching blankets, hundreds of pounds of fried chicken, and enough cherry pie to feed an army. Studio photographers roamed through the proceedings snapping shots of fans with their favorite stars. And autograph books outnumbered Bibles three to one.

  Outfitted in a simple blue suit made by Betsy Minser, Shelby posed for a few photos before moving away from the picnic area and sitting on the church steps. As she watched the events from her perch, a short, heavy man in a dark suit approa
ched.

  “It was a nice service,” he noted. “I guess you must be proud?”

  “Are you a member of the press?” Shelby asked.

  “No,” he replied, “My name is Bill Barrister.” He reached inside his coat pocket and produced his badge and credentials. “I’m a cop. Did you want to talk to the press?”

  “No,” she admitted, “but if you were press or one of the fans who won tickets to the big event, my answer would have had to have been much different to that question.”

  “And why’s that?” he asked.

  She looked into his round face and dark eyes, “I guess I would have told you how this was a dream come true and I hoped it was the first sign of a new day in Hollywood.”

  He smiled while putting his size eight shoe on the bottom step, “Well, that sounds good.”

  “But,” she assured him, “it’s not what Shelby Beckett would really say. Dalton Andrews is right; this place is already changing me. I’m already learning how to play a part.”

  “I don’t think I’m following you,” Barrister admitted.

  “OK,” she explained, “I was really disappointed in the service. It wasn’t real. The songs had no passion, the prayers were nothing more than scripted words and the man reading the Scripture didn’t even understand what he read. It was great theater, but it wasn’t church. Oh, and those stars who shouted ‘Amen,’ they were doing so on cue.”

  “Does it matter?”

  She shrugged, “I guess to those fans out there it doesn’t. And maybe to those listening on the radio it doesn’t either. But I’ve been in real churches and heard the songs of people who were hurting or lost. They might have not been on key, but they sang from their hearts. And the dinner on the ground wasn’t catered.”

  Barrister nodded, “I get it. But you know, this is the first time I’ve been in church in more than a decade, and, let me assure you that I got something out of it. It kind of showed me something I’d been missing. So don’t write this off too quickly. And something you need to remember, the first services in most new churches are pretty much scripted and polished. The spontaneity takes a while.”

  Shelby glanced back out at the picnic and noted her parents eating on a blanket with Sally Glenn and Simon Taylor. They seemed to be having the time of their lives.

  “Miss Beckett.” Shelby’s attention turned once more to the policeman. “May I sit beside you for a moment? I need to ask a favor.”

  “Sure, the stair is open.”

  After he positioned himself to her right, Barrister looked toward the crowd. “Miss Beckett, I’ve read in the newspapers that you and Mr. Sparks are a couple.”

  She grimly smiled, “Don’t believe what you read.”

  The cop looked stunned. “So you aren’t dating him?”

  “Only when the studio arranges it,” she explained. “I hope this doesn’t come off the wrong way, but I have higher standards than he offers.”

  “I see.” Barrister scratched the bald spot on his head before continuing, “Is there any way I could get you to consider dating Mr. Sparks? It would be a great help to an investigation I’m conducting.”

  “I’d rather not,” she firmly replied. “He’s a chump.”

  “I think he might be a murderer,” the cop sincerely shot back. “I was hoping you could help us find out. I need someone to get into his home and see if there is any evidence connecting him to six different murders.”

  “Six?” A suddenly shocked Shelby turned her shoulders to face the cop. “I thought you were looking at him because of what happened to Leslie Bryant.”

  Barrister nodded, “Besides, Miss Bryant, there have been five others, including an unknown girl who was strangled just a few days ago. And while we can only directly connect Sparks to two of the women right now, it is possible he might have known all of them. After all, they were young and beautiful, and that seems to be his type.”

  Shelby sat silently, her eyes focused on the picnic as she considered Barrister’s offer. As she thought, he continued.

  “Miss Beckett, the murderer in these cases always takes the victim’s identification and jewelry. I’ve talked to psychologists, and they’ve told me the man is likely keeping the stuff as some sort of bizarre souvenirs. He likely looks through them, maybe even plays with them, to relive the moment of the murder.”

  “That’s just sick,” Shelby observed.

  “This guy likely appears normal,” the cop continued. “He might seem like a nice person, but he is sick. And I think the murderer might just be Flynn Sparks. I want to stop this now, but the studio is so powerful, I can’t get a search warrant. No matter the evidence we have against Sparks, I can’t touch him. But I thought you might.”

  Shelby kept her eyes forward as she explained, “I’m not the kind of girl who goes to his house. Women who go there leave parts of themselves behind. What stays there can’t be recovered.”

  “Some who go there might even die,” he argued. “Do you want him to keep his free pass to murder?”

  “No,” she quickly answered, “but I don’t believe he’s your guy. I mean, he’s consumed by his own desires and lusts, he is the most egotistical human I’ve ever met, but I can’t see him killing a person.”

  “Then,” Barrister suggested, “by helping us, you could prove me wrong.”

  Shelby stood and turned to face the cop, “I’m not going to give up my innocence to prove his. Now, if you will excuse me, I’m going to spend some time with my parents.”

  “Miss Beckett.”

  “Yes.”

  Barrister reached into his pocket and retrieved a card, “If you change your mind, please call me.”

  She grabbed the card, looking at the name and number written on the paper before pushing it into her Bible, tucking the book under her arm, and walking off.

  53

  July 6, 1936

  This was the first time the cast and crew had traveled off the lot for a location shoot, and it took a dozen security guards to keep fans and the press away from the action. A bored Dalton Andrews stood beside a seemingly anxious Flynn Sparks as Vic Melton went over instructions with an eager young actress neither one of the actors had met.

  As the director droned on, Andrews looked toward a barely moving stream and wryly noted, “It’s so appropriate that we get our drinking water from an aqueduct. In Hollywood, even the rivers are manmade. Is nothing real here?”

  Sparks shook his head, “I wear this same suit in every scene; don’t cops ever change clothes?”

  “Not on what they get paid,” Andrews cracked. “You make more in a week than they do in a year.” He glanced back to where Melton was explaining to the actress how to play dead before looking back to Sparks, “You weren’t on the set this morning.”

  “No reason to be,” he shot back. “I wasn’t in any of the scenes.”

  “Actually,” Andrews laughed, “you were. Well, at least Hunter Nelson was playing you in a restaurant scene. The actress playing your date looked a lot like the girl who played that scene in that bathing suit. You know, the first victim of the Hollywood Madman.”

  “That’s such a stupid name,” Sparks grumbled.

  “What was that girl’s name, you know the one you took to Musso and Frank’s?”

  “I take a lot of girls there,” Sparks boasted. “You can’t expect me to remember all of them.”

  Andrews rolled his eyes, “The name is on the tip of my tongue. Let me see . . . it was Sharp—Alison Sharp.”

  “Agnes,” Sparks chimed in.

  “So you do remember. Have you been out with her again?”

  “No,” he replied, “once was enough.”

  “Strange,” Andrews noted, “I haven’t seen her around the lot either. And now the girl playing our next victim looks like Agnes.”

  “This is Hollywood,” Sparks cracked, “a lot of blondes look alike.”

  Andrews worked his way down the sloping ground to where Melton was finishing giving directions. He more closely
inspected the woman in blue before turning his gaze up the hill. Sparks was on edge . . . why? Andrews looked back to the woman.

  “I’m Dalton, and you are?”

  “This is Rose Trebour,” Melton explained, “She’s new to the lot. Talent scout found her on Broadway.”

  “Nice to be working with you, Rose.”

  “I’ve been hoping to get the chance to work with you for years,” she answered, a hint of Brooklyn in her voice.

  The actor nodded before pulling Melton to the side and whispering, “What’s up with Flynn? He’s not himself today.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Flynn Sparks we know would have already signed this girl up for a date. He hasn’t even tried to meet her.”

  The director looked up to where Sparks was standing, “Maybe what they’re writing in the papers is true. Perhaps that wardrobe girl has reformed him. If I were twenty years younger and single, I’d be going to church with her too.”

  Andrews frowned and glared at his costar. At this moment, there was nothing he wouldn’t do to keep Shelby away from Flynn Sparks. Nothing!

  54

  July 7, 1936

  The sun was just coming up as a sleepy Bill Barrister joined Barry Jenkins on a hillside just inside Griffith Park. As the crime scene crew waited for the light to get a bit brighter, the captain stuck his hands in the pockets of his gray slacks and looked toward a small pond.

  “Barry, does anyone ever fish out here?”

  “I don’t know, is it legal?”

  Barrister sadly nodded, “I haven’t fished in years. When I was young, I even made my own flies. I used to wade into cold mountain streams and spend hours working the shallows. It didn’t matter if I caught anything, just enjoyed being there. Now the only place I enjoy is home. It’s like I close the door and hide. I don’t even go out and talk to my neighbors anymore.”