“Maybe a bit less of one,” Shelby suggested, “than he was yesterday.”
Andrews took a deep breath and said, “You might be right. I mean it was Flynn who told me what that kiss was all about. I just assumed . . .”
She cut him off, “Never assume anything on a studio lot. In fact, I think you were the one who first told me that. Everything is fake, and nothing is as it seems.”
Andrews looked up and smiled, “You’ve had quite an effect on Flynn. He actually told me the truth for a change. And not just about the kiss. He admitted that you actually had to save his life.”
“And,” she added, “he actually came into the finishing room to apologize to me. That’s another big step for him. We might reform him yet.”
“It will be a lifelong project,” the actor laughed. As his eyes caught hers, his expression grew more serious. “Shelby, I was wondering if you were going to sign up to try to change Flynn? I mean, he does have his charms, and if you are, I could understand.”
“I’m not signing up for anything,” she assured him. “Right now I’m just thankful to be alive. What about you? What’s in your future?”
He chuckled, “You’re never going to believe this. Barrister thinks I need to become a cop.”
“You did good work,” Shelby admitted. “But it would mean a huge pay cut.”
“Yeah, and I don’t think I’m ready for that. Besides, playing people in the movies is one thing, playing with people’s lives for real is another.”
An awkward silence once more descended into the room. As it dragged on, Andrews picked up a hymnal and looked through the pages. Shelby studied the handsome man for a few moments before finally opening up her heart.
“Dalton, I have a confession to make. Until I found that stuff in Flynn’s house, I thought you might be the murderer. The way you acted that night at my house, the fact you seemed to hate your sister, and she died while wearing blue, it all kind of fell into place to where I doubted you.”
He nodded, “Speaking like my character, I can understand that.”
She nodded, “What’s going to happen to the studio? I mean it looks like the guy who runs it is gone.”
“It will survive,” Andrews assured her. “The studio is more than Yates. Someone else will buy it and come in and run it. Times aren’t easy out there in the real world, and people still need to escape their dismal lives sometimes. What better way to do that than a movie? And the movie we will finish when we film that last scene where you take down Mace will likely be the biggest motion picture in the history of Galaxy Studios.” He paused and looked deeply into her blue eyes. “But I didn’t come up here to talk about the studio. I came here to find out what is going to happen to us. Now that we’ve been through what we have been through, can we try again?”
Shelby shook her head sadly, “You’re not Jasper anymore, and I’m not that kid who came here six weeks ago from Oklahoma. We can’t live in the past. We can’t pretend we are not here in Los Angeles, and we can’t ignore what has happened to us. I’m a different person. I almost died today. And before that I met people who did die. I’m not sure I can trust anyone besides my parents right now.” She took a deep breath, “Especially someone from the studio. I want my world to be real.”
“Shelby,” Andrews suggested, “maybe we can’t be who we were, but could you ever love who I really am?”
Rather than answer, she shrugged.
A disappointed Andrews looked toward the pulpit. He studied it for a moment before asking, “What about that song you sang? You know, the old gospel hymn.”
“ ‘Love Will Roll the Clouds Away,’ ” she said.
He turned his face toward hers and asked, “Does love really roll the clouds away, or are gospel songs and hymns like the movie business? Are they ways to escape reality rather than being things to cling to?”
Shelby stood and walked over to the man. She wrapped her arm around his, leaned her head into his shoulder, and whispered, “I don’t know if I love you, and I can’t know until I deal with what has happened today. There has been too much senseless death and too much fantasy covering up the truth. You need to give me some time. Why don’t you call me in a few weeks, and maybe we can go out then?”
“To a movie?” he asked.
“Anything but a movie,” she replied.
“I’ll wait,” he assured her as he leaned down and kissed her forehead. “Just let me know when.”
Andrews turned and walked down the aisle and out of the building. She followed behind him to the church door and watched him slowly make his way down the steps to the lonely street. He was almost to the livery stable when a voice deep inside her demanded she take a leap of faith. Rushing down the steps two at time, she cried out, “Dalton, wait a minute! I just realized I need a ride home.”
Group Discussion Guide
1. The Great Depression saw hundreds of thousands of people move from the heartland to California. One of the best-selling books in American history, The Grapes of Wrath, dealt with these refugees’ struggles. Why did most head to California rather than go east or north?
2. Shelby is obviously levelheaded and mature beyond her twenty-one years. What do you feel caused her to grow up so fast?
3. Rather than discipline Flynn Sparks, Jacob Yates sought ways to cover up the star’s moral failings. Why would he do this, and where do you see examples of this in your own life?
4. How did their lives before stardom shape Flynn Sparks and Dalton Andrews? How did it affect the way they viewed what fame and fortune could bring them?
5. Rev. and Mrs. Sykes tried to put off having Barrister actually give them the news of their daughter’s death. Do you think this was a natural response, and why do you feel they didn’t want to actually hear the truth?
6. Sparks won Andrews’s Packard automobile on a bet. Why do you think it was so important for him to get the actor’s car? And how did the Auburn Speedster better reflect Sparks’s personality than the Packard?
7. Barrister feels pressure to avoid direct dealings with the major film studios. Why do the mayor and police chief fear alienating those in the movie business?
8. Ellen Rains is just a reporter, so why does she have so much power? Why are people so scared of her? And do you see her as a positive or negative force in Hollywood?
9. Why do you think movies in the 1930s were largely dialogue-driven rather than action-driven as they are today?
10. In the 1930s, racism was a largely accepted part of society. How was this obvious in the motion picture business?
11. Shelby quickly discovers that in Hollywood the studios rewrite people’s pasts to fit the kind of people they want to sell to the public. What do you think that did to an actress's or actor’s identity away from the cameras? Would it make it harder for them to remember values taught to them in the past?
12. Would using a studio church building really offer any opportunity for real worship? Could the fact that the structure was built for “show” keep it from being a place where spiritual lessons could be taught and learned? Why or why not?
13. What ironies did you note in having a lavish party raise money for the poor? Do you know of any cases where this still happens today?
14. What was Jacob Yates’s real motive in making the movie about the strangulations?
15. Do you feel, as Shelby seems to, that poverty often makes it easier to give in to temptations that compromise a person’s values? Why?
16. How did her mother’s actions affect Minser’s view of men? Do you feel this is what is meant by “the sins of the parents shall be visited upon their children”?
17. Barrister pushed Shelby hard. Why do you think this seemingly protective father was so intent on putting Shelby into a dangerous situation? What were his motives, and do you feel they were justified?
18. Shelby stands up for the man who seems most guilty. What in her background do you believe gave her the courage to speak up during the filming of a key scene in the movie?
19. What significance does the message found in Shelby’s favorite gospel song have to Andrews?
20. Why did Shelby go back to the studio church at the end of the story? What do you think she was hoping to find there?
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We hope you enjoyed Ace Collins’s Hollywood Lost. Here’s a sample from his next book from Abingdon Press, The Fruitcake Murders.
1
Thursday, December 23, 1926
9:15 p.m.
It was just past seven, the temperature was in the teens, the north wind gusting to thirty and the spitting snow flurries hinted at a storm that would soon assure every child in Chicago a white Christmas. Though he wanted to stay home with his elderly mother and two children, love had driven fifty-six-year-old Jan Lewandowski out into the cold to make the twenty-block walk through the city’s Little Italy to the small candy factory he’d started when he’d emigrated from Poland in 1905, and the only reason was the snow.
While his teenage son, Szymon, was too mentally disturbed to care about the weather or the upcoming holidays, Lewandowski’s eight-year-old daughter had been praying for snow for weeks, and today’s forecast thrilled her. Thus, to make Alicija’s joy even greater, Lewandowski was braving the increasingly harsh conditions to retrieve the small, red sled he’d hidden in the back of his office. Tomorrow he was going to place that outdoor toy under the tree and pretend Santa had brought it all the way from the North Pole. If only his little blonde angel could know the truth. If only he could tell the always-smiling child the sled was not a gift from St. Nick, but a labor of love created by his own hands. Maybe someday he would let her know the time it took him to build it and how much love went into every facet of that job, but for the moment, the credit would go solely to the jolly elf that lived above the Arctic Circle. After all, that was a part of the magic and innocence of Christmas that even a middle-aged man like Lewandowski treasured as well as the magic and innocence he felt every child needed to hang onto it for as long as possible.
As the short, stocky candy maker crossed onto Taylor Street, a heavyset, finely dressed man, wearing a long overcoat and wide-brimmed hat and hugging two large paper sacks tightly against his chest, stepped out of Lombardi’s Grocery and Produce and casually ambled toward a Cadillac sedan parked on the curb. A young man, tall and thin and outfitted in a beaver coat and green wool scarf to fight off the wind’s bitter chill, stood by the vehicle’s back door waiting. Arriving at the curb, the big man turned back toward the store, and, as he did, a street lamp revealed a deep, nasty scar on his fleshy cheek.
Standing in the shadows, under the grocery’s awning, Lewandowski watched the heavyset man intently study Lombardi’s showcase window before the shopper slowly spun and stepped through the large, green sedan’s rear door. After the door was shut and secured, the younger man hustled around to the driver’s side, got in, slid the car into first and eased forward. As the Caddy made a sweeping U-turn, its twenty-one inch wooden wheels crunching on the fresh snow, Lewandowski stepped forward and stood under a street lamp. For a moment, his eyes met the driver’s. The men briefly studied each other before the car roared out of sight and the candy maker turned and made his way on down the sidewalk.
Momentarily stopping to pull up his collar in an effort to gain a bit more protection against the unforgiving north wind, Lewandowski glanced at the tiny store the big man had just exited. The candy maker smiled at the festive holiday display Geno Lombardi had created in his front window. Illuminated by blinking, electric lights were a half dozen children’s toys, a few canned hams, a small evergreen tree, four boxes of Noma Christmas lights, a basket of fruit, a can of nuts, and several rolls of wrapping paper. Circling all the goodies was a brand new Lionel electric train, its black steam engine slowly pulling five cars and a caboose around the oval-shaped metal track. While the holiday exhibit captured the spirit and wonder of December, there was something missing. Where were Lewandowski’s prize fruitcakes? Lombardi had agreed to place five of the tins in the window in order to help the candy maker publicize his newest culinary creation. They had been a part of the presentation for two weeks, but now they were gone. So why had the storeowner removed the cans of cake just two days before Christmas? After all, tomorrow would be the most important shopping day of the year, and those cakes needed to be there.
Setting aside all thoughts of his daughter’s present or the coming blizzard, Lewandowski angrily pushed open the glass-paned door and rushed into the small, corner grocery. A bell, mounted just above the entry, announced his presence.
“Geno,” the visitor angrily called out. When there was no reply Lewandowski roared, “Geno, where are my fruitcakes?”
There was still no response.
Figuring Lombardi must be in his office, Lewandowski stuck his hands deep into his overcoat pockets and hurried along a bread rack toward the rear of the store. He’d just passed a display of light bulbs when a chill ran across his wide shoulders and down his spine. As a coal stove had driven the temperature in the store to almost eighty, the creeping cold racing along his flesh had nothing to do with the frigid outside temperature.
“Geno,” he called out, his voice suddenly showing more concern than rage. “Where are you, my friend?”
Stopping, the confused candy maker turned to his right and studied the now empty store. The glow of six dangling one-hundred-watt bulbs bathed the room in a yellowish, almost surreal light. The fact there was no sound except for the ticking of a Seth Thomas clock made the establishment more like a church than a place of business. The grocery was never this quiet. Something was not right! Lombardi never closed before nine, so what was going on? At the very least, he should be restocking his shelves in anticipation of the Christmas Eve rush. Why was he not answering?
“Geno, where are you?” Lewandowski demanded. As an afterthought he added, “What have you done with my fruitcakes?”
Again, no one replied.
Perhaps the storeowner had gone up to the apartment located on the second floor above the main store, or maybe he was in the alley taking out the trash. That had to be it.
It was then that Lewandowski felt more than saw a slight, barely perceptible movement to his right. Shifting his gaze, he noted a small boy, perhaps six or seven, in a center aisle, crouching behind a five-foot-high stack of canned goods, arranged to form something resembling a Christmas tree. The child was dressed in a blue coat, black gloves, dark pants, and a fur hat. As their eyes met, the apparently frightened boy darted from behind the display clipping one of the cans with his foot, causing the rest to fall forward. The sudden noise in the quiet room seemed deafening. As the displaced cans rolled and bounced in every direction, the spooked youngster yanked open the door and raced out into the cold. Once more, the candy maker was alone.
As the last can rolled to a stop against the front counter, uneasiness entered the store like a late spring fog causing Lewandowski’s anger to dissipate as quickly as it had appeared. Now what had been so important just a few minutes before was no longer a concern. Logic had replaced emotion and he felt no reason to stay and find out why his fruitcakes were not in their spot. He could do that tomorrow morning on his way to work. There would be plenty of time then. At this moment, getting Alicija’s sled and taking it home was much more important. Spinning on his heels, he began to retrace his path toward the entry, but managed only two short steps when he spotted the grisly reason why his calls to the storeowner had gone unanswered.
His body frozen in place by a vision too ghastly to imagine, Lewandowski’s brain slogged
along in slow motion trying to understand what he was seeing. As the seconds deliberately ticked by, the candy maker noted a large pool of blood around the storeowner’s body. The next thing that registered was the awkward manner in which Lombardi was sprawled on the hardwood floor. Then, as he hesitantly drew nearer, Lewandowski saw the man’s open, but unseeing eyes. Finally, its shiny red, handle catching the overhead light, he spied a knife stuck deeply into the shopkeeper’s back. Now he knew why there had been no answer; Lombardi’s voice had been silenced when his heart quit beating.
“Nie,” the Polish immigrant whispered in his native language. As Lewandowski removed his gloves and bent closer to touch the grocer’s cheek, he reverted to English and said, “My word, what has happened? Geno, who has done this awful thing to you?” As Lewandowski’s fingertips pushed into the victim’s still warm blood . . . blood now slowly seeping out of the man’s body and onto the floor, the candy maker looked toward the store’s open cash register. As he studied the ornate, nickel-plated machine, he thought back to the stranger he’d seen just moments before.
“Did he rob you?” Lewandowski demanded.
When the grocer didn’t reply, Lewandowski pushed up from his crouching position, grabbed the bloody knife handle in his left hand, and pulled the seven-inch blade from the dead man’s back. The candy maker strolled behind the store’s main counter and looked into the cash register. With his right hand, he tapped a large stack of money still secure in the drawer. As he did, the blood from his fingers transferred to a five-dollar bill.
“Why did they not take the money?” he whispered while making the sign of the cross. “What good was it to kill someone for nothing? Surely death had to have a reason?” He turned back to the dead shopkeeper and demanded as if expecting a reply, “Geno, why did they do this horrible thing to you?”
Lewandowski, too caught up trying to unravel a mystery he couldn’t begin to fathom, failed to note that he was no longer alone. It was only when he heard the bell above the front door ring that the stunned and suddenly terrified man raised the knife over his head and looked up.
Hollywood Lost Page 30