The Silver Blonde

by Elizabeth Ross

  Clara had the script open in front of her. INT. Drawing room—Night. The widow reads the letter. Clara pressed the foot treadle on the Moviola and watched the footage. The widow—in a black sheer cocktail dress—is seated by the enormous fireplace, dying embers glowing in the hearth, shards of moonlight behind her. Opposite sits an empty armchair, her husband’s chair. A few wide shots, and then the close-ups.

  Clara consumed every frame, cutting the scene in her head, imagining which takes she would use if she were the editor. In the close shots Bannon was backlit, just the edge of her blond hair catching the light, her eyes glittering out of the darkness. Clara decided she would linger on that last shot of Bannon staring at the empty armchair. There was no dialogue—the scene didn’t need any. All the emotion played on Bannon’s face.

  By the time Clara checked the clock, it was nearly nine-thirty. One last chance: she picked up Miss Simkin’s phone and asked the operator to connect her to Gil’s extension in the writer’s building. She cradled the receiver under her chin, hearing the buzzes and clicks, listening for Gil’s voice.

  “No answer, miss,” said the switchboard operator without sympathy. “Can I connect you to someone else?”

  “No, thanks.” Clara hung up and rolled her chair back abruptly, trying to shrug off her disappointment. So Gil had gone home. Their plans hadn’t been set in stone. And he could be like that sometimes—distant and hard to pin down.

  It was time to call it a night. Clara returned the Argentan reel to its canister and turned off the Moviola. She didn’t relish a trip to the film vault in the dark, but Miss Simkin would kill her if she didn’t return the reels. The evenings were cool, so she put on her cardigan, slung her purse over her shoulder. With the Argentan reels balanced on her hip, she locked the office.

  * * *

  —

  The film vaults were housed in a concrete building a short walk from postproduction. Clara’s footsteps rang out on the asphalt; the studio was dead quiet at this time of night. A waft of jasmine—the scent stronger at night—tasted like honey in the back of her throat.

  She reached the vaults, a long corridor open on both ends, with a series of doors at short intervals. Sprinkler pipes snaked overhead. The nitrate film stock was flammable and unstable—the smallest spark could ignite an inferno. The vaults were designed to contain a fire and prevent it from spreading. She passed a large no smoking sign plastered on the wall, as if anyone would be stupid enough to light up in the vaults.

  Clara’s footsteps were muffled now, insulated by inches of concrete. She reached the correct door—vault four—and spun the combination on the lock. (She had the combinations memorized, unlike Lloyd, who needed a cheat sheet.) The door opened outward to reveal a second door, which she pushed inward, and then stepped inside. The storage vault had a narrow aisle, just wide enough for one person, with floor-to-ceiling film racks on either side.

  A memory—a flash of Gil in the vaults. He had come with her once, a few weeks after they met. She’d been asking him something about story structure—they talked film all the time—and he had offered to walk with her. Other than the rainstorm, it was the first time they’d been alone together.

  “It’s so quiet,” he marveled, and moved to the back of the vault to check out the air shaft. When he brushed past her in the tight space, her stomach flipped. “Look at those cobwebs.”

  She came up behind him, explaining automatically about the fire risks and the purpose of the vent. He wasn’t wearing a suit jacket, and she could feel the heat of him through his shirt. His dark hair was cropped short, and she could see his scar, a neat swooping curve from behind his left ear to the nape of his neck. Her eyes traveled along the line of his shoulders and down his back. She squeezed her fists to resist reaching out and touching him. She wanted him to turn around. She wanted him to kiss her, right there against the film racks.

  Standing there alone, Clara flushed at the memory. He hadn’t kissed her in the vault that day. Or any day after that. They were work friends, and that suited her fine.

  Clara found the empty slots for the Argentan reels and slid them back roughly, banging her elbow against the metal upright. “Damn it.” She rubbed her throbbing arm and blamed Gil for no reason.

  Clara closed both doors and spun the dial to lock the vault. She hit the switch on the wall, and the bar of light on the floor disappeared. Up the corridor something glinting caught her eye. It was poking out from under the door of the next vault. She took a couple of steps closer. It was silvery white—a piece of trash? Miss Simkin would not approve. Who’s been littering in the vaults? Clara bent down to pick it up. As soon as she touched it—soft and silky—she recoiled, cutting off a breath. It wasn’t trash. It was a tuft of pale blond hair.

  Chapter Two

  Vault Five

  WITH TREMBLING FINGERS CLARA spun the dial of the combination lock, her insides whirling along with it. After she reached the last number, she froze—hand hovering above the door handle. She squeezed her eyes shut, and ignoring the flash of terror at what was inside, she sliced down on the handle.

  The door sprang outward.

  On the floor of the vault, wedged between the film racks and the inner door, lay Barbara Bannon. Dead.

  Clara exhaled a noise that was immediately swallowed by the thick concrete walls. Then silence. Just the sound of blood rushing to her head, ringing in her ears. The dress from the dailies footage—black silk, sweetheart neckline. That’s what she recognized—that and the blond hair. There was no need to check for a pulse. It was the stillness—a body, a heap, no longer a person. Clara edged closer. Bannon’s neck was covered in swollen bruises and raw red marks. Clara could feel the pulse on her own neck twitch beneath the skin. A lock of blond hair maintained its perfect glossy wave. The rest was matted with blood from a gash on the side of her face—strands of hair stuck to her cheek. A glimpse of an eye, partly open. As empty as a blank screen. The actress’s hands were grubby or bruised, the dark red fingernails chipped—one nail ripped off, hanging by a thread. She must have fought back. Instinctively Clara balled her fists.

  A noise from outside, and a streak of fear seized Clara. She backed away from vault five as she would a cliff’s edge. She braced herself against the corridor wall. Adrenaline kicked in and she was moving, retracing her steps, hand on the wall for support, as though she were in a rocking train carriage.

  Outside, the scent of jasmine sent her reeling—its cloying sweetness masking something rotten. She was running, stumbling in her suede pumps toward the postproduction building. Like an earthquake, the ground seemed to roll beneath her, asphalt turned to ocean.

  Fumbling with the key, she burst into the office and lunged for the phone, scattering Miss Simkin’s paperwork. She heard her voice ask for security, and the switchboard connected her to the front gate. He picked up right away. “Joe, it’s Clara in the archive.” Her voice was unfamiliar; she could hear the hint of her old accent. “There’s a woman in the vault.” Her mind was still trying to reconcile what she had seen. “Barbara Bannon, she—she’s dead.”

  Chapter Three

  Vault Girl

  IT WAS LATE, AND Clara was sitting on the patio of the studio café, where the uniformed police had told her to wait. Out of the darkness she could see the water tower looming over the executive building. From this angle the scrolling S of the Silver Pacific logo wrapped itself around the tower like a snake. Overhead a string of patio lights twinkled merrily—out of place. The day had come crashing down. The studio, her studio, had collapsed on itself, like some kind of Buster Keaton stunt where everything falls off the car and he’s left standing in the wreckage holding the steering wheel. She had seen an ambulance arrive, and then—more sinister—the coroner’s van.

  Someone had given her a Coke, and she watched the tiny bubbles rise to the surface, without taking a sip.

  “Clara Berg?” She looked
up to find a burly man in a brown suit, eyes skimming a notepad. “I’m Detective Ireland. Mind if I sit down?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. He sat down heavily, eyes still on the notepad. “You work in the film archive?”

  “I’m a vault girl,” Clara said.

  He met her gaze. “Vault girl?” he repeated.

  Clara nodded mechanically. “I run reels of film back and forth from the vaults to the editors. Usually it’s ‘vault boy,’ but during the war, with the men away fighting…”

  “I get it. Rosie the Riveter. It’s no picnic, though.” He checked his watch. “After ten. That’s a long day.” The detective had the shoulders of a boxer, thinning sandy hair, a face that had lost a fight or two.

  “I got a promotion today.” This fact was suddenly meaningless. “I was waiting for my friend to call. We were going to go to the Formosa after he finished work.”

  “He works here at the studio?”

  Clara nodded.

  “Was he with you when you went to the vault?”

  She shivered. “No.” Her cotton cardigan was flimsy, and her calves felt bare in thin nylons. “He had to work.” Privately she knew that Gil must have forgotten about their date and gone home. He couldn’t still be on the lot, working through all this. The growler sirens on the cop cars had drawn all the night owls from their burrows and set off a chorus of neighborhood dogs. The few employees working late were congregated behind the police cordon. She caught them staring at her. She’s the one who found her, she could almost hear them murmur.

  “And you’re sure you didn’t see anyone, either on your way to the vault or after, when you called for help?”

  Clara shook her head. “No.”

  Detective Ireland frowned at his notebook. His brown suit was rumpled, and Clara noticed there was a stain on his tie, looked like mustard or gravy.

  A uniformed officer approached. “Excuse me, Detective.” He darted a glance at Clara. “We found Miss Bannon’s dressing room unlocked; lights were on. Nothing seems to have been disturbed.”

  Ireland nodded. “Anything else?”

  “Studio brass are on their way, sir,” said the uniformed officer.

  “Right. Let me know when they show up.”

  “Clara!” She looked up to see Gil darting past the perimeter cordon.

  She sprang to her feet. Pins and needles immediately seized her calves; she winced and sat down again. Her eyes welled up at the sight of a familiar face—his face. She bit the inside of her cheek. She wasn’t about to blub in front of the detective.

  “Clara,” he said again, a hint of panic in his voice. He approached the café, his eyes scanning the scene with her and the detective.

  Ireland stood up. “Back up, buddy.” The detective held a solid hand in the air, meaty fingers splayed and pushing against an invisible wall. Gil stopped and glowered at Ireland. Then he nodded to Clara, his face ashen. “You okay?”

  She saw the detective’s eyes flit between them. “Who are you, the boyfriend?”

  “We’re friends,” said Clara quickly. She saw his copper’s brain making a mental note.

  Gil took a step toward her. “When I heard—a woman in the vault, I immediately thought”—his eyes locked on hers and his breath dropped to a whisper—“vault girl.” He made a move as though he was about to reach out to her—but stopped himself. “What happened?”

  She was about to answer, but Ireland stepped on her line.

  “I’ll ask the questions,” Ireland barked. “Take a seat.” Ireland pointed his notebook to the free chair at their table. Gil glared at him, then scraped back the chair and sat down next to Clara. As Ireland flipped through his notepad, Gil gave her a private smile.

  “All right, what’s your name, son?” said the detective.

  “Francis Gilbert—I go by Gil.”

  He scribbled it down. “And what do you do, Mr. Gilbert?”

  “Screenwriter.”

  The detective nodded. “And you were on the lot this evening?”

  “Yeah, I was working. Rewriting a scene for tomorrow.” Gil’s voice was flat.

  “Where?” said Ireland.

  “My office in the writer’s building.”

  “You work alone?”

  Gil sighed. “Tonight I do. My partner, Roger Brackett, left early—busy social life.”

  “You were there all evening?” said Ireland. “Didn’t leave for any reason, take a breath of air?”

  “No, I was there the whole time—until I heard the sirens.”

  Clara remembered the switchboard trying him—no answer. She flicked a glance at him. Maybe the girl had tried the wrong extension. Or had he been so absorbed in his work that he hadn’t heard the phone? Clara blinked her doubts away.

  “What’s the movie you’re writing?” asked the detective.

  “Letter from Argentan.”

  “That the Babe Bannon picture?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “You know Miss Bannon pretty well?”

  Gil gave a noncommittal shrug. “She’s the star of the movie. My partner deals with actors. He chitchats; I type—what’s that got to do with anything?”

  Clara tensed up. She knew what the detective was building to.

  “There’s no official ID yet,” he said, his gaze steady on Gil. “But it looks like Barbara Bannon was murdered.”

  Gil’s shoulders dropped, and he leaned back in his chair like he’d been pushed. “She’s dead?” he breathed, incredulous.

  “I went to the vault to return a reel,” said Clara, inhaling a shaky breath. “I found her—on the floor of the vault, dumped there, like a piece of trash.”

  Gil flinched. His mouth tightened, and the shadow behind his eyes descended.

  “Miss Berg’s had quite a shock,” said Detective Ireland.

  A beam of headlights swept over the patio, and they all watched as a huge black Cadillac pulled up. Mr. Pearce, the head of Silver Pacific studios, got out and was immediately rushed by his executives. The uniformed officer signaled Detective Ireland. He got up with a sigh, rubbing his red stubble with a huge hand. “Here we go,” Clara heard him mumble.

  Gil pulled his chair closer. “How long have you been sitting here?” he said, pressing his warm hand on hers. “You’re freezing.”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Hold on.” Gil stood up. “Detective!” he called after Ireland. “Can you cut her loose?”

  The detective stopped. “Gimme a second. Rivetti.” He summoned another detective, thin and wiry. Clara watched them confer for a moment. Then Ireland turned back to Gil. “Okay, Miss Berg, you can go. Thanks for your help.” Detective Ireland pointed at Gil. “Make sure she gets home safe.”

  Clara got to her feet. Her limbs felt stiff and clumsy. Gil took her by the hand. “Come on.” They left the patio and ducked under the police cordon. He guided her past the small crowd of studio employees, who parted to let them through. Clara could see their eyes burning with hungry questions. It was strange and darkly thrilling, striding past a crowd of spectators, hand in hand with Gil. She was that tall girl from postproduction—a vault girl, a nobody—and now she was the object of the gaze, like some notorious movie star, a beacon for gossip columnists and flashbulbs.

  They had made it past the water tower and were closing in on the parking lot when they heard a voice.

  “Klara!” Clara turned to see Max, the projectionist, instantly recognizable by his thick shock of gray hair. He was trotting toward them, out of breath. “Klara,” he said again. Max peered at them over his spectacles with an anxious expression. “Was ist passiert?”

  Without thinking, Clara answered in German. “Barbara Bannon ist tot.” The image of Bannon’s lifeless body flooded her mind’s eye in close-up.

  Max gasped. “Schrecklich!” He raked a hand through his wiry hair. “Im Stud
io?”

  “Ja, ich habe sie gefunden.” Clara could feel her face pucker. “Sie wurde ermordet.”

  Gil stepped forward. “Maybe the questions can wait, pops.” He said it like Max was a bum on the street asking for change.

  Max bristled. “I’ll ride the streetcar with you, Klara.” He patted his pockets and pulled out a chain of keys. “I just need to lock the projection room.” Clara looked between them—she felt torn. She’d known Max for years. He was friends with her parents; he’d gotten her the job at the studio.

  “Come on,” said Gil, pulling her arm gently. “Car’s just over there.”

  Max glared at the interloper.

  “Gil said he’d give me a ride,” Clara explained. She smiled an apology. “It’s okay, Max. I know him.”

  They left Max forlorn on the edge of the parking lot. Gil steered Clara swiftly across the nearly empty lot toward a pale convertible. The top was down and the chrome finishes glinted in the lamplight. He held the passenger door for her, and she got in, collapsing onto the seat. She was rigid, shivering. Gil darted around to the driver’s side. “Soft top’s ripped, I’m afraid,” he said, reaching behind the seat and grabbing a blanket. “You can put this on your legs if you get cold.”

  Clara took the bunched-up blanket and hugged it against her chest like a stuffed animal. Gil tried the ignition. It made a high-pitched grinding sound. Eventually the engine revved to life, sounding too big for the car—a small dog with a big dog’s bark. He executed a swift arc in reverse and then shifted gears and gunned it for the studio gates. He slowed to a crawl past the security booth and saluted the guard, who nodded, and the barrier rose, letting them pass. Outside the gates a squad car was idling, its solid red light a reminder of the scene in the vault—as if she could forget.