All That Glitters

by Michael Murphy

  Her face reddened as we stepped outside. “Don’t ‘darling’ me.”

  The old man leaned on his cane as he stood on the red-tiled pool deck, gazing through the morning haze at the Hollywood Hills below. He shuffled his feet and faced us. The change in his appearance since our meeting was extraordinary. His face was a pasty white and his hair gray and lusterless. His dull eyes had lost their earlier intensity.

  He’d lost a son since I last saw him, but the transformation reminded me how difficult it was to believe Hollywood types. From the time we stepped off the train, everyone seemed to be an actor.

  “Mr. Donovan, Laura.” His hand shook as he pointed toward a table with a large yellow umbrella. Norman braced himself and eased into one of the wrought-iron chairs.

  I pulled out another chair for Laura. We sat and waited to learn why we’d been summoned.

  Laura squeezed his hand. “How are you holding up?”

  “Better than Todd. He’s taking it hard.”

  “Were they close?” My question elicited a kick under the table from Laura, but my quest to gather information had to start somewhere.

  Norman cocked his head. “They were as close as any two brothers I’ve ever known.”

  I found that hard to believe after seeing the two argue when Christine and I had arrived at the party. Still, brothers often bickered.

  His face hardened, regaining some of his earlier strength. “I want to thank you for helping the police investigate Eric’s death. Suicide is impossible to understand.”

  I risked a quick glance at Laura. So was murder. I’d let Annabelle or Gus break the news.

  Norman’s gaze dropped to my undershirt. “What happened to your shirt?”

  “It’s a long story.” I wasn’t about to offer any details.

  He shrugged. “The studio will be closed today, of course, but tomorrow we’ll be back to making movies.”

  Laura’s mouth dropped. We both thought the same thing. One day?

  “Eric would’ve wanted it that way.” Norman massaged his forehead. “I know it’ll be difficult to work with this cloud over the studio, but actors and crew need to get paid. We’ve made commitments and have schedules to keep. I suppose it might seem a bit insensitive….”

  Hollywood was like so many exotic cultures I struggled to comprehend. The city’s customs and traditions seemed so strange and inexplicable to me and most other outsiders. Perhaps the old man merely wanted to put his son’s death behind him. Most people reacted that way, but something about the decision troubled me. Something I couldn’t quite wrap my fatigued mind around.

  Norman cleared his throat. “There’s a movie to be made, and every day we’re shut down is revenue lost. I trust you’ll be able to furnish a revised scene or two by the morning, Mr. Donovan.”

  I needed rest, food, and a steaming hot shower. “I’ll spend the day on it.”

  “Thank you.”

  The French doors opened and Todd marched toward us. He stopped in front of his old man and set both hands on his hips. His earlier grief had vanished. “You’re reopening the studio in the morning? You insensitive bastard. What will people think?”

  Norman banged the table with his fist. “Running a studio calls for making tough decisions. Until now, I thought you possessed that quality. Apparently I was mistaken.”

  “Don’t make this about me. The press is going to nail your ass to the wall, you know.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time.” Norman struggled to his feet. “I understand how you feel, but—”

  “No…no, you don’t.” Todd tossed aside a chair, which skidded across the tile and nearly fell into the pool. He hurried toward the house and disappeared inside.

  Norman eased himself back into his chair. “I…I don’t understand. Todd more than anyone should grasp the financial cost of shutting down the studio, even for a day.”

  Todd wasn’t acting like a bean counter. He was acting like a man who’d just lost his brother. His behavior appeared more plausible than his father’s.

  I returned the chair to the table. I was on Todd’s side on this one, and he was right about how the press would handle the decision to resume studio activities so soon.

  Laura patted his hand. “Everyone grieves differently. Todd will come around.”

  “You’re very kind.” The old man coughed again. He covered his mouth with a handkerchief.

  “Let me get James,” I said.

  “Nonsense. I’m fine.”

  Laura patted his hand again. We said our good-byes and left the old man by the pool.

  Inside the ballroom, Laura called the butler over and asked him to check on Norman.

  Reaching the foyer, I snapped my fingers when I recalled what had bothered me so much about how the old man wanted to put his son’s death behind him.

  “What is it?” Laura asked.

  I stopped beside the bench near the front door and lowered my voice. “In our meeting last night, the old man said, ‘I’ll take care of my son. After tonight, Eric won’t cause you any more problems.’ ”

  Laura stopped blinking. “Are you…are you suggesting this sweet, grieving old man shot his son?” She burst out laughing.

  “First off, he’s not a sweet old man, he’s a controlling bastard.”

  “What’s the second thing?” Her laughter turned into a smirk.

  “Second…I don’t remember. When the old man said it, the words gave me the creeps.”

  “Come on.” She opened the door. “You need some rest so you can think clearly.”

  She was right about needing rest, but I’d seen too many murders committed by family members to dismiss the idea that Norman might have killed his own son.

  Outside, Todd sat on a wrought-iron bench puffing on a cigarette. Old habits like smoking are hard to break, especially when one loses a brother.

  Laura wanted to console him. That was her nature. Unlike me, who enjoyed the honesty that emotion brought most people. One thing seemed clear. Todd preferred to be alone.

  My new nemesis, Detective Gus Connolly, appeared even more arrogant than he did when he stuffed my shirt into an evidence bag. He stood beside a police car, chatting with a barely-able-to-shave uniformed officer. Hopefully not about me. At least Annabelle wasn’t around.

  Gus yanked opened the rear door of the car and swept his hand inside. “Officer Debbs will return you to the hotel. Might as well get used to the back of a cop car, Donovan.”

  Arrogant bastard. “I’d rather walk.”

  “No, he wouldn’t.” Laura stepped forward and reached for the open door.

  “I’ll give you a lift.” Todd rose, tossed his cigarette on the driveway and squashed it with his shoe.

  “Oh, Todd.” Laura held up a hand.”We wouldn’t want to impose.”

  What? “Yes we would.”

  “Follow me.” Todd led us around the side of the house and stopped in front of a four-car garage. He raised the heavy door and pointed to one of four expensive rides, a new red Ford Roadster with its distinctive swept-back grille. “You want me to put the top up?”

  “If it’s not too much trouble.” The last thing I wanted was another windswept ride to the hotel.

  “Don’t be silly. I love convertibles.” Laura smacked my arm. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

  I’d left a desire for adventure somewhere in New York. I craved peace and calm, though I expected little of either over the next several days.

  I opened the passenger door for Laura. She sat beside Todd while I climbed in back, admiring the plush tan leather seats and gleaming wood finish.

  The car rumbled to life, and Todd backed it out of the garage. He turned onto the circular drive and glanced toward Gus. “I thought the detectives wanted your help. Why’s he being a jerk?”

  “He and I have a past.” The roadster effortlessly grabbed each turn, but when we pulled onto the winding curves of the road, I pressed my feet against the floorboard as the speedometer began to climb.

>   Todd barely braked. “I’m sorry for my behavior back at the house. I lost my temper with my father. He’s making a terrible mistake, but more than that, reopening the studio before the funeral isn’t right. Still, I shouldn’t have expressed my frustrations to him. He’s not well.”

  I held my tongue. Norman Carville was still a mean, manipulative bastard. Still, I had to learn more about Todd before eliminating him as a suspect. Could he have killed his brother?

  “You have every right to be concerned.” Laura seemed oblivious to the wind whipping through her hair or the squeal of the tires at every curve. I knew she was sore because I’d yet to explain my missing shirt.

  I let out a sigh of relief when we finally left the hills. I studied Todd. Perhaps it was his slight build and his quiet demeanor of an accountant, but I found it hard to picture him running a studio. Eric, handsome with flashy white teeth, had looked the part of a studio big shot and clearly loved the movie business. I wondered if they’d been as close as their father said they’d been.

  I didn’t have anything to lose by asking. “Were you and your brother close?”

  Laura’s head snapped toward me.

  Todd ran one hand over the back of his neck. “Eric and I were half brothers.”

  I didn’t know that, and from Laura’s expression, she didn’t either. I wanted to learn more. “So Eric—”

  “Let’s not talk about Eric.” Todd downshifted, and we came to a railroad crossing where a bell clanged and a barricade arm blocked our path.

  The train rumbled by while he ranted about his father’s decision to reopen the studio in the morning.

  The door to one of the boxcars was open. Two men wearing old clothes and needing shaves waved as the car passed us.

  Todd shook his head, his jaw tightening like it had earlier when he’d confronted his father. “Damn Okies.”

  I hadn’t expected such direct bigotry from someone in his position. Did grief excuse a man’s prejudices or reveal them?

  The men’s presence again reminded me of the Depression but apparently reminded Todd of something else.

  Laura cocked her head. “People are out of work all over the country.”

  Todd let out a sigh. “Okies, uneducated and lazy, are flooding California, crowding our schools and hospitals.”

  I braced for an explosion from Laura. She opened her mouth, like she wanted to set the man straight, but bit her lip as the barricade arm rose and the warning bell grew silent.

  Todd drove over the train tracks, and his eyes brightened like he was out for a Sunday drive. “You both could use some breakfast. There’s a diner around the corner from your hotel that makes perfect eggs.”

  I was too tired to eat. I had on a tuxedo jacket over an undershirt. I needed sleep, a shower, and a shave. More importantly, I wanted to explain to Laura what had happened to my missing shirt and what else went on in Eric’s room. “The studio’s going to reopen in the morning so I need to get to work on the screenplay.”

  “I’m starved,” Laura said. “The diner sounds terrific.”

  I didn’t like my fiancée having breakfast with another man, but I kept my possessiveness in check. It was only Todd. Besides, maybe she’d learn more about the two brothers. They had no doubt quarreled over who would inherit Carville Studios after their father passed on.

  At the hotel, Todd stared as I climbed from the car. “What happened to your shirt?”

  I glanced down at my jacket. “I don’t know. It was here a minute ago.”

  Todd chuckled.

  I leaned over the passenger door to kiss Laura. I missed her lips by several inches as she turned her other cheek.

  After watching them drive off, I entered the lobby, ignoring the disapproving stares from staff members. In the suite, I called the front desk to send up a pot of coffee.

  During a hot shower, I reflected on how life had turned so suddenly. Instead of staying in Laura’s shadow, working on my novel while she starred in a movie, I’d become a suspect in what would soon be a high-profile Hollywood murder.

  I changed into trousers and a light sweater. I forced myself to set aside my concerns and sat in front of the typewriter. I put the finishing touches on the food-fight scene and punched up dialogue in a scene at a racetrack.

  A couple of hours later, Laura came in holding an unopened newspaper. She dropped it on the desk. “I’ve waited long enough. What happened to your damn shirt?”

  In as reassuring a voice as possible, I explained how I’d proved Eric’s death wasn’t a suicide. I recapped the examination of Eric’s body, and Gus, Annabelle, and the medical examiner’s reaction after learning about my earlier fight with Eric and the blood on my shirt. They’d practically insisted I leave the shirt with them. I downplayed Annabelle’s odd behavior.

  A furrow crinkled Laura’s face. When I finished the story, she dropped into a chair. “You have an airtight alibi. You were here! What do they think? After we returned to the hotel, you went back and shot Eric because he goaded you into a fight and you wanted to pay him back?”

  “Something like that.”

  “That’s crazy!” Laura jumped to her feet and placed her hands on her hips. “Jake Donovan, you need to get a lawyer.”

  “I don’t need a lawyer, don’t want a lawyer, and don’t like lawyers.”

  “So you’re just going to wait things out?”

  I shook my head. “I’m going to find out who killed Eric Carville.”

  “If you’re not going to take my advice, we have nothing further to discuss.” With a flip of her hair, Laura snatched up the newspaper.

  It seemed as if we’d quarreled nonstop since we’d arrived in Hollywood. I followed her to the balcony.

  With the folded newspaper on her lap, her lips trembled and her eyes glistened as she gazed at the famous Hollywood sign.

  When I sat beside her, she blinked away tears. “Ever hear of Peg Entwistle?”

  I shook my head.

  “You were off gallivanting in Florida when Peg became a successful Broadway actress, a wonderful comedian. I worked with her in a play called Alice Sit-by-the-Fire. She talked nearly daily about all the glitter of Hollywood. After she left New York, the producer offered me the role she’d been offered in Boy Crazy.”

  Laura’s eyes never left the sign, but her thoughts seemed much farther away than that. “She’s known as the Hollywood-sign girl.”

  “We should visit her.”

  “We can’t.” Laura’s lip quivered. “She’s in Ohio. Oak Hill Cemetery, to be exact.”

  “What happened?”

  “In Hollywood, Peg never found success. She landed a small role in a movie, Thirteen Women with Myrna Loy and Irene Dunne, but important roles never came. Word is she grew discouraged and despondent when she couldn’t repeat her Broadway success. One day she hiked up to the Hollywood sign, climbed to the top of the H,” Laura swallowed hard, “and jumped.”

  If I’d known, I never would’ve chosen a hotel with a view of the famous sign. From our balcony, the sign would be a constant reminder to Laura of the loss of her friend and how fragile an acting career might be.

  We sat a moment in silence until Louella Parsons’s face in the newspaper caught my eye. I grabbed the article and scanned her latest column. “Damn.”

  “What is it?”

  “Take a look.”

  She snatched the newspaper from my hand.

  The gossip columnist recapped the pending divorce of Carole Lombard and William Powell. She devoted the rest of the column to the party at the Carville Estate.

  “Did you read the part about you?” Laura read aloud. “ ‘Mystery author, Jake Donovan, livened up the party when he flattened Carville Studios executive Eric Carville with a left-right combination straight out of one of his Blackie Doyle novels. Donovan, recently arrived from New York, is rumored to be working on a screenplay. You made quite an impression on one studio, Mr. Donovan. Welcome to Hollywood.’ ”

  I forced myself to brea
the. I might be able to outmaneuver Gus and Annabelle, but people believed what Louella Parsons wrote. Would she, like the cops, connect the fight to Eric Carville’s murder? “The murder investigation will play out and won’t affect your career one iota.”

  “My career!” She pressed my hand against her chest. “Darling, I don’t care about my career right now. You could go to prison, even…”

  I cleared my throat as if the noose had already tightened around my neck. “I’ll prove I didn’t murder Eric Carville by uncovering the real killer.”

  “How are you going to do that?”

  “Since I’m working on the screenplay, I’ll need to get to know the actors and studio types who were close to Eric. I used to be a pretty competent detective, you might recall.” And a lot more proficient than Gus, and especially Annabelle, in her current state of infatuation.

  “We’ll uncover the identity of the killer.”

  I didn’t want Laura involved in a murder investigation when Eric’s killer was unknown, but it wasn’t the time to argue with her.

  “Don’t joke about our future. I’m the luckiest woman in the world. I’m in love with my high-school sweetheart, and I’m an actress, but without you…” Her eyes misted, but a smile fought through her tears. “Who would’ve thought back in Queens we’d have all this?”

  “Me.”

  Chapter 8

  Dinner, Dancing, and a Diamond

  Fatigue—caused by lack of sleep, concern over my status as a murder suspect, and the stress of attempting to become a successful Hollywood actress—showed on Laura’s face. I suggested she rest, and I didn’t receive an argument. She kissed me and disappeared into the bedroom.

  I left the balcony, emptied the last of the now-cold coffee into my cup, and gulped the brew. Still on Eastern time, and after a practically sleepless night, I considered joining Laura. However, with suspicious cops targeting me, I had more important things to tackle.

  At the desk, I flipped through the shooting schedule. I spent the next hour identifying scenes with little to no dialogue or those that didn’t require revision. I placed paper clips on each of those scenes then slipped the shooting schedule and the food fight and racetrack scenes into a large envelope and wrote For the Attention of Norman Carville. If the studio filmed those first, I’d have a couple of weeks to investigate Eric’s murder.