Shooting Hollywood

by Melodie Johnson Howe

  “It’s a cruel business. Sometimes we gain celebrity by ways we don’t intend,” I said carefully.

  “You mean like now? Me breaking into you house? This gun?”

  I nodded. “It’s the unintended consequences. And I’m sure you don’t want that kind of notoriety for doing something…” I was going to say crazy and thought better of it.

  “It’s like an improvisation in acting class, isn’t it?”

  “What is?”

  “Us sitting here talking. You trying to figure out what I want. If I’m going to harm you or not.”

  “And what’s your part in this improv?”

  “To get to the end.”

  “What kind of ending do you want?”

  “A Hollywood ending.”

  “Hollywood doesn’t have endings to their movies anymore. They just blow things up at the conclusion.”

  “No narrative, no ending?”

  “That’s right.” She was smart and had wit.

  “But I want an old Hollywood ending like when they were writing narratives. Are you a Joan Crawford fan?”

  “I loved her in Mildred Pierce.”

  “That’s one of my favorites, too. And she was great in the George Cukor film, The Women. She played a woman named Crystal in that movie. I wish my mother had named me after her character.”

  “But Joan Crawford took Norma Shear’s husband away from her in that movie. Maybe your mother didn’t think that was appropriate.”

  “You think my mother had that kind of morality? I told you she watched Dynasty. She never saw The Women. She hated the old black and white films. How can you be a stage mother and never see the great films?” Tears formed. She wiped them roughly away. “Daisy Kenyon was another great Joan Crawford movie.”

  “That was with Henry Fonda and Dana Andrews.” I clutched my coffee mug so tightly my knuckles were white. It was all I had to cling too.

  “She had to decide which man to choose. You see, we’re having a good conversation, aren’t we?” she asked, like a pleading child.

  “Yes.”

  “I could never talk to my mother this way. You know, I think Joan’s daughter destroyed her by writing that book.”

  “You mean Mommy Dearest?”

  “But I don’t blame her. Joan used her daughter as a prop the way my mother did me.”

  “Is that why you…?” I stopped.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” I had gone too far. I didn’t want to know whether she’d done something to her mother. My heart was pounding again.

  Her eyes met mine. “You want to know if I killed her, don’t you?”

  “Look, I’m tired of being scared. Let’s keep talking about the old movies. “What are your other Crawford favorites?”

  “The one I love the most is Masquerade. She was so beautiful in that film.”

  Shadows grew long across the kitchen floor. The sun was lowering.

  “John Garfield played her lover,” I said.

  “He was a concert violinist in that movie. It’s getting dark out.”

  “What do you want from me?” I blurted, desperately.

  “I told you a conversation. Like a mother and daughter who share the same goals.”

  “I’m not your mother.”

  “I know that! I’m not crazy.” Her body tensed. The gun jerked in her hand. “We’re doing an improv. You’re my mother. I’m your daughter. You love me instead of just promoting me. You don’t resent me because I grew up and couldn’t bring in the money anymore. You don’t hate me for being an adult. You look scared again.”

  “I am.”

  Her voice grew loud and shrill. “I didn’t kill her if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “I killed my agent.”

  I sat back in my chair. “You killed your agent?” I didn’t know whether to cry or laugh. “Who was he?”

  “Ben Black.”

  “He’s my agent. You killed my agent.”

  “He wasn’t right for you.”

  I put my face in my hands. I was losing it. My pathetic world was turning upside down, and what little I had left to cling to was being taken away by a mad young woman.

  “He said some very bad things about you.”

  I looked at her. “Such as?”

  Using her free hand she poured us both more coffee. “He always returns phone calls later in the day when all the assistants and secretaries are gone. Except he never returned mine. So yesterday I was in the outer office. His door was ajar. I could hear him telling a producer that you weren’t right for the part of Jillian in the new Josh King movie.”

  “I just read for that role. They said they wanted to hire me.”

  “I’m sorry, but he was telling the producer he should sign Pauline Hale instead.”

  “She can’t act her way out of a paper bag.”

  “He’s sleeping with her.”

  “How do you know?”

  “My mother told me. She’s also sleeping with him. She discovered them in bed one night.”

  “Wait a minute. I’m not following all this. Your mother was sleeping with Ben Black to get you work?”

  “No, just because he wanted her.”

  “And he was also sleeping with that slut Pauline Hale?”

  She nodded and glanced quickly out the window. The sun was gone. The light in the kitchen had dimmed. Her expression was wretched, heartbroken.

  “Nobody’s ever looked out for you, have they?” I said, softly.

  “Ben Black told me I was through. He told me that nobody wanted to hire me. It was so Hollywood. My mother told me the same thing. Everyday. Nobody wants me.”

  Without thinking, I placed my hand on her forearm.

  “Now you’re not afraid of me even though I killed our agent. But if I had killed my mother…”

  I withdrew my hand. “You were acting weren’t you? Improv. You’re very good. I believed you killed Ben Black.”

  Her eyes flashed.

  “I was at a luncheon filled with people in the business. If you’d murdered Ben Black last night everybody would be talking about it today. But they weren’t because you didn’t kill him.”

  It was dark now except for the illumination of the computerize clock on the microwave and a faint reflection of a waning moon at the window.

  “You told the waiter and the hotel door man that you were my daughter because you didn’t have a mother anymore.” I was still afraid to say the word murdered.

  “I had to change my hair color so I wouldn’t be recognized. I decided on your color. Not a great job, I know. You were the only person that I wanted to see. I came here this morning to be with you. While I was waiting outside to get up my nerve I saw you leave. I followed you to the hotel and the luncheon. Then I came back here and waited for you.”

  “So you and I could pretend to be mother and daughter.”

  “Improv,” she said, defensively.

  “I know a lot about improvisation,” I said softly. “I know even more about mourning. You didn’t expect to feel the loss of her, did you?”

  “No.” Her voice was a whisper.

  We were two pale shadows sitting at the kitchen table. A strange calming silence fell between us.

  Startling me, she abruptly shoved her chair back and stood. I froze. She closed in on me. Leaning down, she rested her head on my shoulder. I still didn’t move. Then I felt the flat side of the gun pressing into my back as she hugged me. I put my hand on her cheek.

  “I wish you were my mother. Goodbye, Diana

  “Where are you going, Crystal?”

  “I want you to stay here. I don’t want to shoot you.” She left the kitchen.

  I remained at the table in the darkness. I thought about Hollywood endings. I thought about Joan Crawford. I thought about the great star walking into the ocean and drowning herself at the end of Masquerade. I thought about how quiet my house was once again.

  I hurried into the living room. T
he sliding glass door was open. I went out onto the deck. The fresh ocean air wrapped around me with a familiarity that I never wanted to lose. Except for her lone figure standing at the waters edge, and the thin moon above her, the beach was empty. She dropped the gun and waded into the ocean.

  “No!” I screamed.

  Kicking off my shoes I ran down to the water. She was rising and falling with each white rimmed wave.

  “Don’t do it!” The damp wind carried away my scream as I dove into the pounding surf. The cold Pacific water cut me to the bone. I tasted salt. When I came up, I saw a large wave take Crystal and roll her out into the vast blackness. Then another one crashed down on me, sucking me under, and flipping me head over heels. I gasped for air as I clawed my way to the surface and struggled back to shore. Shivering, I searched the horizon for her. I glimpsed her head bob up, as slick and as shinny as a seal’s in the moonlight, then vanish.

  I ran to my kitchen and called 911. Then I leaned against the counter for support. I took a dishtowel and buried my face in it. I began to cry. I cried for Crystal. I cried for the phantom daughter. I cried for the hell of it.

  Gathering myself, I picked up the phone and punched in Ben Black’s private number.

  “Yes!” he barked.

  “I knew you weren’t dead.”

  “Who the hell is this?”

  “Diana Poole.”

  “Are you drunk? Listen, I’ve had a terrible day. The police have been crawling all over the place. A woman I know was murdered. Her daughter, Crystal, is one of my clients. I think she did it. Crystal came to see me yesterday evening. I had to throw her out of the office. Why do they always come to me when they’re has-beens?”

  “Do you have bad news for me, Ben?”

  “What are you, a mind reader? The producers want to go with Pauline Hale. Sorry, Diana. I worked my ass off to get you the part. It was perfect for you.”

  “I’m a big girl, Ben. I can handle you screwing me over. But you went to bed with Crystal’s mother. And didn’t do anything for Crystal. She should’ve shot you instead.” I hit the off button. I hate cell phones—you can’t slam the receiver down.

  I grabbed Colin’s old rain jacket from the laundry room and put it on. Then I waited on the beach for the police. The cold water bit at my bare feet. I turned and looked at the houses lining the shore. The only one with a light on was mine.

  SHOOTING HOLLYWOOD

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review in a newspaper, magazine, or electronic publication; nor may any part of this book be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or other, without written permission from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2011 by Melodie Johnson Howe

  The stories in this collection previously appeared in the following publications.

  “Dirty Blonde,” Sisters in Crime 4, ed. Marilyn Wallace (Berkley, 1991)

  “Another Tented Evening,” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, March 1996

  “Killing the Sixties,” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, June 1999

  “Facing Up,” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, July 2004

  “Tiffany Blue,” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, March 2002

  “The Talking Dead,” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, June 2003

  “The Good Daughter,” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, August 2007

  “What’s It Worth?,” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, December 2008

  “A Hollywood Ending,” Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, July 2009

  Cover design by Tash Webber

  EPUB: 978-1-78396-124-5

  MOBI: 978-1-78396-125-2

  This ebook edition published 2014 by Elliott & Thompson Ltd

  27 John Street

  London, WC1N 2BX

  www.eandtbooks.com

  If you liked SHOOTING HOLLYWOOD

  Read more Poole in

  CITY OF MIRRORS

  Available now on Kindle

  Also available:

  THE CLAIRE CONRAD/MAGGIE HILL NOVELS:

  THE MOTHER SHADOW & BEAUTY DIES

  Out now on Kindle

  Now read a special extract of the Mother Shadow:

  1

  A LOW, SMOOTH MALE voice infiltrated my sleep. The voice told me: “Virginity is making a comeback. Polls taken on high-school and college campuses find…”

  I opened my eyes and turned off the radio. Sitting on the edge of my bed, staring at my unshaven legs and the chipped red nail polish on my toenails, I waited for my usual morning sadness to slowly disappear. Ever since I was a little girl I have experienced a sense of loss upon awakening. I think of this loss, this sadness, as a bridge of melancholy which I must cross to get from the comforting darkness of unconsciousness to the painful light of morning.

  Since this was the morning of my thirty-fifth birthday, and I’d just been told by the radio that virginity was making a comeback, I knew my sadness was going to linger. My breasts felt heavy. How could these two little things feel so burdensome? Gravity. And how was it possible for virginity to make a comeback?!

  The telephone rang. It had to be my mother, who lives in Versailles, Ohio, on a street called Main. She would be calling to wish me a happy birthday, and to announce, not for the first time, that I was now a mature woman who must face the fact that not everyone can be a success in Los Angeles. Please come home.

  I found the telephone under yesterday’s clothes. “Hello?”

  “Miss Maggie Hill, please.”

  “Speaking.”

  “Ellis Kenilworth here.” Kenilworth was my current temporary employer. “Would you mind coming in earlier this morning? Say, around nine o’clock instead of ten?” His cool, educated voice was frayed with tension. “I will be meeting with a Roger Valcovich, and it’s imperative that you be here.”

  “Is something wrong, Mr. Kenilworth?”

  “For the first time, I’m trying to make things right. Miss Hill, I’ve grown to respect you over the short period of time we’ve worked together. I hope that feeling is mutual.”

  “It is.” I did respect Kenilworth. He was a true gentleman. In fact, he was the only gentleman I knew. His manners and courtesies were extended with admiration, not with a pat on the head.

  “And I always felt, if need be, I could rely on your discretion,” he said.

  “Of course.”

  “Good. Nine o’clock, then. Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye.”

  In my family, discretion meant that you kept your goddamn mouth shut. I hung up the phone. His choice of the word “imperative” was odd. For the last three months I’d been working out of Kenilworth’s mansion in Pasadena. I put his handwritten inventories of his coin collection into his brand-new computer. It was one of my easier temporary jobs. There was nothing imperative about it.

  I stared at my own computer. It was delicately stacked and balanced on the short, narrow bar top that separates my tiny kitchen from my tiny living-bedroom. The monitor was blank faced, the floppy disks empty. I was a writer. I had written one novel, which was published to overwhelming silence. I looked at my watch. It was eight o’clock. No time to shave my legs. Again.

  Heading toward the bathroom, I flipped on the television. Jane and Bryant were sitting on the NBC sofa, looking all shiny faced and spruced up. Before I turned on the shower, I heard Jane bouncily announce that her next set of guests were Mr. J. L. Henderson, a wife beater; Mrs. Alice Henderson, his twenty-year victim; and Dr. Arnold Meitzer, psychologist. But first…

  Warm water…soap�
�Maybe I could wash virginity back into my life. I shut my eyes.

  There was the image of my ex-husband, Neil. He was no wife beater. I was no victim. And yet…all that shared pain. Why did I marry a policeman? Do not go over this again, Maggie. Oh, hell, what are birthdays for if not to review your past failures and torture yourself with those failures? Almost as much fun as picking a pimple. I married him because I thought I needed his sense of structure, his authority, his knowledge of right and wrong. I immediately rebelled against all he had to offer me. Confusing me. Confusing him.

  I had liked his impersonal way of having sex. We didn’t make love. We fucked. But then he had an impersonal affair, and I discovered just how very personal betrayal can be.

  I got out of the shower and opened the door to let the steam out of my windowless bathroom. I heard Bryant declare that New York was going to let the local stations tell the viewers what was happening in their part of the country. I always thought that was really nice of New York. They didn’t have to let us know what was going on.

  I dried off the mirror. Serious dark-brown eyes looked at serious dark-brown eyes. High cheekbones reflected high cheekbones. My hair, the same color as my eyes, was cut just below my defiant chin. My nose avoided being cute by turning slightly down instead of up. I would have opted for cute. My mouth secretly embarrassed me: the lips were full and looked as if they were waiting for kisses. Men always looked at my mouth first. Rubbing cream into my face, which I knew didn’t do a damn thing, I decided there wasn’t time to blow-dry my hair.

  Back in the living-bedroom, I struggled into control-top panty hose, trying not to work up a sweat. A blond young man with a smirk appeared on the TV. He told me he was David Dunn. He had his eye on L.A. But first…

  I searched through my dresser for a forty-five-dollar French bra. I’d just bought it. I couldn’t afford it. A pure white lacy strap gleamed among the twisted mass of panty hose, slips, scarfs, sweaters, and underwear. The top of my dresser was strewn with makeup, costume jewelry, paperback books, notes to myself, dirty underwear, and my grandmother’s rosary. This wasn’t the dresser of a thirty-five-year-old woman. This dresser looked like it belonged to a fifteen-year-old girl. My sadness was deepening into depression.