The Silver Blonde

by Elizabeth Ross

  At her bedroom window Clara gazed at the city lights and the inky sky free of cloud. The same city as this morning, when the studio and everything she wanted had been within reach. Nearby in Griffith Park a coyote yipped and a more distant call answered. She heard the switchboard operator in her head. No answer, miss. Can I connect you to someone else? Since her discovery in the vault, something had shifted. There was before and after. Clara lived in the after now; Los Angeles had admitted her to its dark side.

  Chapter Five

  June Gloom

  A MOB OF PRESS greeted employees of Silver Pacific at the pedestrian gate the next morning. They were kept at bay by a couple of uniformed officers, but it didn’t stop the reporters from yelling out to people arriving for work: “When will the studio release a statement?” “Do the police have any leads?” “Hey, honey, how does it feel, coming to work with a murderer on the loose?”

  Clara kept her head down and followed the train of other employees. The line at the gate was slow. She watched as extra security guards examined ID. It made her think of immigration officers scrutinizing passports and faces, as though she were about to enter another country. Berlin was split up into zones now, cut up like a cake, the allied countries each taking a piece.

  After the crush of the gate, the studio lay bare—flat and uninteresting. A marine haze had descended and blocked out the sun, turning the world dull and grubby: June gloom in May. This was the first time walking through the gates that Clara hadn’t felt something singular and pure and completely hers.

  When she entered the archive, Lloyd was on the phone and Simkin was in her office, behind her typewriter—neither of them looked up. Clara went to her desk, put her purse in a drawer, and shrugged off her jacket. The office smelled stale and familiar, and she couldn’t help but feel resentful. Today, Friday, was supposed to be her last day in the archive—it was supposed to feel triumphant like graduation or the last day of term. But now the production of Argentan had been upended, along with Clara’s new job.

  Lloyd slammed down the phone. “Dammit,” he said, and stormed out of the archive. The door rattled in its frame. Clara had never seen him lose his temper. It was most unlike him.

  Simkin poked her head out of her office and regarded the closed door. “Unacceptable.” She folded her arms. “A tragedy has struck, but we don’t need to sink to melodrama.”

  “I suppose everyone is on edge,” Clara offered. She wanted to talk about the murder, about Babe Bannon. Miss Simkin had worked at the studio since the dawn of time. She knew all the goings-on. “Do you think,” said Clara, fishing, “the cops already have a suspect? Maybe someone who worked on the movie? Seems like Bannon created as much drama off-screen as on. I heard that—”

  “Enough gossip,” Miss Simkin said, shutting Clara down. She removed her glasses and regarded Clara. “Miss Berg, I don’t know why you were in the archive after hours last night.”

  “I was watching Argentan footage. I wanted to be prepared—”

  Simkin cut her off. “I’ve been lenient with you. Overly so. You’re keen and a hard worker, but this isn’t your office in which to do as you please. Given the shock you’ve had—yes, I heard that you made the discovery—I shall say no more about it.”

  “So is the movie shut down?” Clara watched Simkin’s pinched face and wanted more than ever to be out of her clutches.

  Simkin raised an eyebrow. “No film star, no film,” she said, confirming Clara’s worst fears. “I can float you for a while in the archive, but your replacement starts Monday.” She let out a disgruntled sigh. “At least you’ll be around to train the new lad.” Miss Simkin gestured to Lloyd’s empty chair. “Your colleague is no shining example.” And with that, she returned to her desk. As usual Miss Simkin was all business and no emotions. What would it take, Clara wondered, for her to be human?

  “There’s still work to be done,” Simkin called out from behind her typewriter. “Of course with the vaults out of bounds, we’ll have to wait for the all clear from the police.” She put her glasses on and peered at the page she was typing. “For now, Clara, why don’t you go help Sam. He’s been here since six a.m.”

  * * *

  —

  The second floor of the postproduction building was a negative image of the day before. Clara dragged her feet along the corridor. Today the squawk of Moviolas was bothersome—the shrieking notes of competing dialogue sounded like a murder of crows warding her off.

  Sam was hunched over his editing bench. “Hi,” said Clara. He hadn’t heard her knock, and startled when she spoke.

  “Clara, come in.” He pushed his glasses up and blinked at her, bleary-eyed. “I still can’t believe the news.” He shook his head. “Babe Bannon murdered.” His reaction was the complete opposite of Miss Simkin’s.

  “I know,” said Clara, and sank into the chair by the Moviola. “Why are you here so early? Isn’t the movie shut down?”

  Sam let out a long sigh. She could smell the sour reek of stale coffee breath. He pushed his glasses back onto his nose and gestured to his editing bench. “Mr. Pearce has demanded that we try to salvage the film with only three-quarters of the scenes shot.” She noted the two crusted coffee cups, the slew of continuity reports and script pages across his desk in the corner. He looked like he hadn’t slept.

  “And my assistant called.” Sam pointed at the phone accusingly. “He already found himself a new job over at Warner, an editing position.” Clara had never liked the first assistant editor. Where Sam was open to showing Clara the ropes, his assistant had resented her frequent visits. Sam shrugged. “Can’t blame him, I guess.”

  “And the movie—can you finish it? Is that even possible?” she asked, hoping she still had a shot at the apprentice job.

  “Writers are working on some ideas: voice-over, reworking scenes, additional dialogue recorded with a soundalike.” Sam shook his head, rolled his chair back, and stretched his legs. “We’ll spend a week chasing our tails, and the movie will be scrapped anyway.”

  It was the same cutting room as the day before—no different, except now it shrank from her. The light had shifted; colors were dull, objects turned flat and mundane. The murder had changed everything.

  He leaned back in his chair and gazed at the ceiling. “I never met her, you know. Barbara Bannon.”

  “Really? How come?” said Clara.

  Sam shook his head absently. “I try not to let the actor intrude on the character they’re playing. It breaks the spell for me.” He sighed. “I shake hands with them at the premiere, and they don’t have a clue who I am. Whereas I know every inch of their face, every expression, every inflection in their voice.” He gave a sad smile. “I wish I had relaxed my rule this time.”

  Clara rolled her chair closer. “Do you think it was someone on the crew? The murderer?”

  Sam met her eye. “There was tension, yes.” He started to say something, then thought better of it.

  “What is it?” said Clara, her eyes fixed on the editor.

  “Her co-star, for one. Randall Ford gave Babe a hard time on set.” He nodded to the film footage on the bench. “Downright nasty sometimes—I’ve seen the outtakes.” He turned back to Clara, his gaze steady. “And Howard did nothing to stop it.”

  The phone rang and Clara jumped.

  “Editorial.” Sam frowned into the receiver. He listened for a beat, then glanced at his watch. “Any idea what it’s about?” He nodded to whoever was on the other end of the line. “Thanks.” Sam hung up. “There’s a production meeting on stage eleven in half an hour—the whole crew’s been asked to attend.” He pushed up his sleeves and turned back to his film bench. “I don’t have time for this,” he muttered.

  Clara picked up some continuity pages that had fallen on the floor and started to put them in the right order. She felt a little flash of daring. “I can go to the meeting if you li
ke,” she said, trying not to sound too eager. “I’ll report back, tell you what happens.”

  “Would you?” Sam said gratefully. “It’s probably just the official announcement.” He held a strip of film up to the light. “Hopefully Pearce has come to his senses and decided to shut it down. I can’t work miracles.”

  * * *

  —

  When Clara crossed the lot, she didn’t recognize the feel of the place—it was a new and strange country to which she had no allegiance. Silver Pacific studios had shrunk, all the magic wrung out of it. It was just a collection of office buildings and some tatty stages in peeling white paint, graying like old socks; grimy corners under drainpipes; patches of dead grass where employees had trampled a shortcut. Bougainvillea, brassy and cheap, threw itself over the studio walls, like a bit player trying to get noticed.

  Outside the commissary she passed two secretaries bickering, and for a split second she was sure they were speaking German. She spun around quickly. Of course she had imagined it; the women were as American as Betty Grable. They were talking about the cops commandeering parking spaces. Somehow these commonplace things rattled her.

  She took the long way to the stage—out of her way—past the Writers’ Block, and automatically scanned the vicinity for Gil. The building was two stories and it had an outdoor staircase, like a motel, which led to the offices on the second floor. Gil and Mr. Brackett’s office was upstairs. Clara was hoping she would run into him; then they could walk over together. She wanted to talk to him. It had been nagging her: Why didn’t he pick up when she called last night? She squinted up at the second floor, but there was no sign of Gil or Mr. Brackett. Maybe they had already left for the meeting. She quickened her pace toward the stages.

  With the production suspended, stage eleven—the set for the mansion house—was silent and lackluster. There was no sign of Gil yet. The rest of the crew milled around a craft table, helping themselves to coffee and tea, talking in hushed tones as though they were at a wake. Clara wouldn’t have minded a coffee, but she was curious to check out the set. Working in postproduction, she usually didn’t get the opportunity to visit the soundstages.

  She wandered into the widow’s mansion house—a life-size dollhouse opened up at the hinges. There was a huge entryway with a grand staircase (leading to a second floor whose set was on another stage), a library, a drawing room, and a dining room.

  Compared to the version on-screen that Clara was used to, the set looked disappointing and unremarkable. Natural light flooded the house and exposed the cheap plywood flats, which looked as though they could be knocked down in a breeze. The stonework of the fireplace was obviously made of plaster, and the “marble” staircase was painted wood. Through the back windows there was an unconvincing painted backdrop of formal gardens—crude and two-dimensional. Why did she want movies so badly? It was all an illusion, a cheap trick—an expensive game of pretend.

  Her parents had balked at her desire to work at the studio. They had reacted as though she had announced she was running away to join the circus. It had taken Max to help convince them, and even then it was supposed to be temporary. Her parents assumed that movie studios were sordid places, not appropriate for a young woman. She still hadn’t told them about the murder. She had scooped up the newspaper from the doorstep—with its screaming headline—and taken it with her. She’d tell them tonight.

  On the side wall of the library set, Clara could see the craft table and the crew, perfectly framed through the leaded glass window. Howard Hawks, raking a hand through his silver hair, was in a tense conversation with Randall Ford. In person, the former matinee idol appeared older and paunchier than he did on-screen—his hair was thinning, and he wasn’t wearing his toupee. The man with the beard and the cravat she pegged as the set designer or the cinematographer. He was talking to the costume designer. Dressed in a vivid green suit, she was dabbing her eyes. Clara stared at them like suspects in a drawing-room mystery. Was one of them a killer? Someone pouring cream into his coffee, helping himself to the sugar, someone feigning shock and disbelief like everyone else and yet he—or perhaps even she—was a cold-blooded killer? A murderer. Observing them through the set window, she was the detective in an Agatha Christie novel, except this wasn’t a stately English home. It wasn’t a drawing-room mystery. This was Los Angeles; there were no manners here. Clara recalled Gil’s description of the crew, everyone wanting their pound of flesh. Babe Bannon’s murder had to be mixed up in the dark side of Hollywood—something from the pulps or the scandal sheets.

  Clara caught sight of Gil and Mr. Brackett walking through the wide stage doors. She moved to the edge of the set. Gil clocked her and headed over. As he got closer, his eyes pinned her in place. He smiled, in a contained way in front of his colleagues. “How are you doing?” He jerked his head toward the doors. “It’s nuts out there. I nearly ran over a reporter.”

  Clara nodded. “It took me ages to get in as well.”

  Roger Brackett was addressing a handful of the crew. “We live our lives not in years—we measure time in movies. It’s the film’s title you remember, not the date.”

  Gil rolled his eyes and whispered to Clara, “He’ll start quoting Keats any minute—it’s the only bit of poetry he’s learned by heart.” He touched her arm. “Come on.”

  They moved away from the group and found themselves in the vast entrance hall of the set.

  “Any idea what the meeting is about?” asked Clara.

  Gil shrugged. “Pearce will have some trite words of sympathy and warn the crew not to blab to the press. No love lost between him and Bannon.”

  The prop telephone gleamed on the hall table, prompting Clara to remember her question.

  “Last night,” she said, watching him carefully. “Where were you? You didn’t call.”

  Gil stopped and looked at her, confused.

  “The Formosa,” said Clara. She hoped she didn’t sound desperate or disappointed. She knew Gil and how he could be; she wasn’t a swooning bobby-soxer pining for a date.

  He smacked his forehead. “I completely forgot. I was wrestling with that scene.”

  “I called you,” said Clara quickly. “There was no answer.”

  Gil froze for a moment. “I was probably in Roger’s office—his couch is comfier than my chair.” He shrugged. “I guess I didn’t hear the phone.”

  Just then a murmur rippled across the crew, and they turned to see that the head of the studio, Mr. Pearce, had entered the stage at a brisk clip, flanked by Ireland and his partner, Detective Rivetti. The three of them looked grim. Mr. Pearce commandeered an apple box from a grip and stepped onto it like a politician making a stump speech. Clara, Gil, and the rest of the crew gathered around him. He was dressed in a three-piece suit and his hair was oiled and shone under the lights—he was elegant in that way rich people always are. The vast stage fell silent.

  “Sorry to have kept you waiting.” Pearce adjusted his tie, and his cuff links gleamed. “You’ve all seen the headlines, and you know why production has been suspended.” His manner was clipped, controlled. He cleared his throat. “However, the situation is rapidly changing. The police have just informed me—” He tried a deeper register. “There’s been a development. The short of it is…” He swallowed, and Clara detected a hint of panic crossing his face. “Barbara Bannon is alive.”

  Chapter Six

  Miss Bannon

  A COLLECTIVE GASP ROSE from the crew, and Clara felt the color drain from her face. Alive? Untethered, she was suddenly hot and light-headed. It was a floating feeling, out of body, a crane shot pulling back, high above her. She’s not dead. She’s alive. Clara had made a mistake, a terrible blunder. They should have called an ambulance, not the cops. But an ambulance had come—and gone. Then the coroner’s van had showed up. Again, tight close-ups flashed across her mind: the one eye open, the gash on her face, blond hair matt
ed with blood. Bannon alive? It couldn’t be true.

  “Let me finish!” Mr. Pearce held up his hands to silence the crew. “Last night at the studio, a young woman was killed—but it wasn’t Barbara Bannon.” The volume on the stage rose again as the news sank in.

  Gil shook his head. “What’s he talking about?”

  Someone else?

  “It’s impossible.” Clara turned to Gil. “I saw her—it was Bannon. She was wearing her costume, same blond hair—it was her. I’m positive.”

  “Mr. Pearce.” The script supervisor stepped forward. “Mr. Pearce,” she repeated, fighting to be heard.

  “Quiet, everyone,” said Pearce sharply. He turned to the script supervisor. “Go ahead.”

  “Who was it? Who was in the vault?” It was the question on everyone’s lips.

  Pearce shook his head. “I am unable to say at this point. We’re waiting for the official word.” His voice—trying for calm and commanding—was thin and reedy across the vast soundstage.

  “What about Babe?” asked Bannon’s dresser.

  “Yeah, where is she?” said a gruff voice. It came from a middle-aged man wearing a tool belt.

  Pearce exchanged a look with the detectives, and Ireland stepped forward to address the crew. “Her cabin in Big Bear. She woke this morning, went to town for coffee, saw the headlines in the paper, and called her agent, who alerted us. A police escort is taking her back to the city as we speak.”