Clara was still in disbelief. It was that same recoiling confusion as when you mistake a stranger for a friend, that momentary limbo when your mind has to play catch-up.
“Why’d they say it was Bannon?” said a camera guy, a combative air about him. Voices from the crew:
“It’s in all the papers.”
“Who told them?”
Clara’s heart was hammering. She felt the heat of humiliation. It was worse than any mistake she could make at work—worse than leaving the vault unlocked or a reel in the office overnight or forgetting to turn in the time sheets—and she didn’t make mistakes. She wasn’t Lloyd. And yet somehow this was her fault: she had misidentified the body.
Pearce cleared his throat. “Several people on the scene assumed it was Bannon. A similarity of appearance.” Bannon’s dresser threw a glance in Clara’s direction. Did she know it was Clara who’d found the body? Was Pearce going to point the finger of blame at her in front of everyone? Clara could imagine other heads turning, other pairs of accusing eyes. She felt a wave of nausea rise from her gut, and for a moment she wished she could disappear behind the set, but she remained straight-backed and staring at Pearce.
The other detective, Rivetti, stepped in. He was dark with a thin mustache, and a garish tie—more like a gangster in a B movie than a cop. “The studio never released Bannon’s name. They hadn’t made an official statement. The press got a jump on the story,” he said in a nasal whine. “ ‘Movie star murdered.’ It spread like wildfire.”
“On that note,” Pearce interjected, “we’re asking that none of you talk to reporters about the case. We have to think of the victim’s family, still to be informed. There’s been a great deal of upset already.”
“Whose fault’s that?” Clara recognized the voice of Randall Ford but couldn’t place him in the crowd.
The sun had managed to burn through the marine layer, and now it poured through the open stage doors. It was at that moment Clara noticed someone standing there: a woman in silhouette. Something about her stance was deliberate.
“When will we resume shooting?” she heard the script supervisor ask.
“Too early to say,” Pearce said quickly.
Now the grip next to Clara noticed the woman at the stage doors. “Miss Bannon?” he muttered. A ripple of incredulity, and like a wave building, heads began to turn.
“The detectives have set up—” Pearce stopped short.
On cue, Barbara Bannon made her entrance, striding across the stage. An apparition, she was backlit by the brash sun. It could only have been sixty feet from the open stage doors to where the crew was assembled, but for Clara time slowed and she saw Bannon walking toward them in an endless tracking shot. Her gait immediately recognizable—staccato steps, hips swinging. She was holding something—a bat, a stick? As she got closer, Clara realized it was a rolled-up newspaper. The crew parted to let her through, almost wary of this phantom.
Barbara Bannon was very much alive. And she was furious. “Conrad Pearce.” She spat his name. “What the hell’s going on?” Her voice—low and gutsy—filled the whole stage.
Pearce stepped off his apple box and moved toward her. Bannon was wielding her paper, and for a moment Clara believed she would strike him with it. Instead she threw it to the ground by his feet. It hit the floor with a slap, unfurling the familiar headline in block capitals. babe bannon murdered. “Care to explain?”
Some movie stars are disappointing in the flesh. Not Barbara Bannon. Petite, dressed in a white shirt, wide-legged pants cinched with a man’s belt, wedge heels, a silk scarf tied around her ash-blond hair, and no makeup. She was stunning. Clara had never seen her up close before (the gruesome discovery in the vault no longer valid). There was something arresting and forceful about her; she was electrifying. Clara caught the trace of her perfume and could discern a smattering of freckles on her cheekbones. Howard Hawks made a move toward her, but something about her stance pulled him up short. Even the detectives looked in awe of her, their professional guise slipping, their mouths hanging open.
She stood under the crew’s gaze as though illuminated by a spotlight. Everyone on the stage was mesmerized. It was like the effect of the most powerful theater. Clara recalled a review of the actress’s breakout role: Bannon sizzles on-screen, her chemistry with Gregory Quinn red-hot. Audiences won’t be able to take their eyes off her.
“Let’s talk in my office.” Pearce tried to guide her away from the assembled crew, but she stayed put, feet planted.
“This some kind of stunt?” She shot a dagger glance at Hawks, then back at Pearce. “Your publicity boys getting creative? We’re shooting a suspense movie, after all.” Her accent in real life departed from the mid-Atlantic polish of her movie roles. She was a real Joe. Mouth like a trucker. Gil’s words echoed in her head.
“We’re trying to piece it together,” said Pearce. His eyes flicked nervously at the crew. “A young woman was murdered at the studio last night.”
“Who?” Bannon fired back without taking a breath. Her eyes flashed, and she looked like she would bite him.
Rivetti and Ireland stood, as dumb as chess pieces waiting for someone to move them. Pearce managed a taut grimace. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “The victim hasn’t been officially identified.”
Bannon could sense his waffling. “Spit it out, Conrad.” That snappy dialogue.
The crew, hackles raised, murmured their assent. The head of the studio looked as though he might wring Bannon’s slender neck himself.
“Who was it?” Clara heard a voice and realized it was her own. She had stepped forward. Her heart was thumping, and her cheeks flamed at her own daring. “Who was in the vault?” Pearce flicked a glance at Clara. She could feel the entire stage silently side with her—they all wanted answers. Pearce was on the spot. He looked warm in that nice suit. His eyes darted to Ireland for permission. The detective gave a small nod.
“We’re waiting on confirmation,” Pearce said to Bannon, “but it’s likely the victim was your stand-in, Connie Milligan.”
A murmur of surprise swept across the crew. Bannon took a step back, like a stumble, reeling as the name sank in. She nodded slowly, absorbing the news, blinking her emotions away. The stand-in. It was now blindingly obvious. Who else could be mistaken for Bannon? Who else would be wearing her costume—same height, same build and color of hair? And with the blood obscuring her face. Clara wobbled. She felt Gil’s hand on her back, and she leaned into him. A hive of bees was swarming in her head, the buzzing ringing in her ears.
Bannon turned to the crew. “I could use a drink.” She scanned the faces. “My house, any time after seven. You’re all invited.” Her jaw was set, and Clara noticed how she threw her head back, jutting out her chin, the way she did before delivering a killer line. “We’ll raise a glass to Connie.”
At that, she turned and strode off, Mr. Pearce and Howard Hawks following her at a safe distance.
Gil let out a shaky breath. “Jesus.”
Frozen to the spot, Clara’s eyes followed Barbara Bannon as she disappeared. What had they just witnessed? It felt something close to supernatural. She blinked at the open stage doors, and the white rectangles of sunlight burned into her eyes.
The chatter on the stage swelled, the crew clamoring with questions.
“Okay, everyone, pipe down,” Detective Rivetti snarled. “We still have a murder to solve. The more we can find out about Connie Milligan, the closer we’ll be to finding her killer.”
“What if it was random—some crazy nut with a thing for blondes?” asked the young grip who had first noticed Bannon.
“Unlikely,” said Rivetti. “A random killer wouldn’t have access to the lot.”
Ireland nodded. “Most murders are committed by someone the victim knows—often, in the case of a female victim, by someone she w
as romantically involved with.” Clara shuddered at these words.
“We need your help filling in the blanks in Connie’s life. She only began at the studio a few weeks ago,” said Rivetti. “Before that she worked as an extra and as an usherette at the Vista Theater. Anyone with information, please come forward.”
“We’ll be conducting interviews this afternoon,” said Ireland. “No one is to leave the studio until cleared by one of us. We have an office set up in the costume shop.”
The meeting was finally over. The stage felt oppressive, the air stale. The crew, as mindless as sleepwalkers, stumbled toward the open stage doors and into the dazzling sunshine.
Chapter Seven
Melrose Gate
GIL WAS IMMEDIATELY PULLED away by Mr. Brackett and a flurry of studio people—with their starring actress alive and well, would the movie resume filming? That could mean Clara’s coveted promotion would be reinstated. She should have felt relieved. And yet she felt strangely numb, as if the thing she had wanted so badly had lost its significance—her dream was now a stranger to her.
By the Melrose Gate Clara caught sight of Lloyd watching the tributes pile up for the wrong victim. She drew next to him, and they stood contemplating the sea of flowers, cards, and headshots of Bannon.
Lloyd, hands sunk in his pockets, half-heartedly kicked the railing. “No flowers for Connie Milligan.”
Clara’s head whipped around. “You knew her, the stand-in?”
He gave a long sigh. “I knew it must have been her in the vaults.” He nodded in the direction of the stage. “Even before I clapped eyes on Babe Bannon marching across the lot. I mean, I didn’t know for sure—I just had a bad feeling since this morning. I couldn’t get a hold of Connie.”
“Lloyd—I’m sorry,” said Clara, her mind racing.
He gave a sharp jerk of his shoulders, shrugging off her sympathy. They were both silent for a beat. “When she auditioned to be Bannon’s stand-in,” Lloyd went on, “she said it was like auditioning to play the right-size vase.” He gave an empty laugh. “They looked through her, she said, like she wasn’t a person. She just had to be the right dimensions, to match Bannon.” His mind drifted off somewhere for a moment. Clara was holding her breath, waiting for him to continue. He remained quiet.
“If you were friends with Connie,” Clara prompted, “you might know something that can help the detectives. They want anyone with information to come forward.”
“And tell them what?” he snapped. “She was friends with a vault boy and she ended up dead in the vaults?” There was a look of anger or fear in his eyes.
“But you didn’t do anything…” Clara trailed off. She didn’t know whether she was stating a fact or asking him a question.
The energy of Lloyd’s outburst drained away, his shoulders dropped, and he looked a little lost. Clara wanted him to assure her that he wasn’t mixed up in this. “Lloyd?” Clara asked. But his gaze had drifted back to the tributes on the other side of the fence. “What a mess, all those flowers,” he said. “Security’s going to have to clean it up.”
Chapter Eight
Beachwood Canyon
GIL HAILED THE NEWSBOY at a stoplight and gave him a coin. “Evening edition?” he asked.
The boy nodded. “Yes, sir.” He gave them a copy of the Los Angeles Times and jogged to the car behind.
Gil handed Clara the paper. There in black and white was a photograph of Connie Milligan staring at them from above the fold—bright and sunny, her blond wave darker in newsprint. Finally—face to face with the girl in the vault. She looked different from what Clara had expected—unsophisticated, softer edges, cheekbones like apples, finer brows. Clara felt an empty pit in her stomach, and the feeling grew as she stared at the face. This girl wasn’t a movie star. Like Clara, she was just another girl on the lot, one of the many invisible young women who toiled behind the scenes, whose names wouldn’t appear up in lights.
“You okay?” asked Gil.
Clara nodded, shrugging off her emotions. “You think she looks like Bannon?”
Gil studied the picture. “Not really. Maybe it’s an old photo.”
A car behind them beeped; the light had turned green. Gil stepped on the gas. As they passed Hollywood Boulevard, Clara took in the bars and restaurants and theater marquees, and all the people hustling, dreaming, striving for a piece of this town. As the car flew north on Vine, Clara turned back to the paper. She consumed the face in newsprint until the ink danced before her eyes. Who are you? What happened to you? The world felt unjust and random. Clara Berg was on her way to a movie star’s house in the Hollywood Hills; Connie Milligan lay dead in the morgue. She folded the newspaper tenderly and slid it under her seat.
“They’re already talking about the schedule,” said Gil. “I’m guessing the shoot will start after the publicity has died down.” He looked across at her. “That means your apprentice editor job will be back on.”
Clara sighed. “I suppose you’re right.” She couldn’t muster any enthusiasm because at that moment the whole thing felt impossible. Her parents would never agree to it. Even before the murder, the idea of them allowing her to get her own apartment, to remain behind in Los Angeles without them, had been a stretch. Now, with a murderer on the loose, it was unthinkable.
* * *
—
Bannon’s home was a Spanish villa in Beachwood Canyon—white stucco and arched windows draped with frills of bougainvillea. Her famous powder-blue coupe was parked in the drive. As they walked up tiled steps and approached the front door, Clara could feel herself seize up.
“We don’t have to go in,” said Gil, assuming her hesitation was nerves.
“No, I want to—for Connie’s sake.”
It was more than simply raising a glass out of respect for an apple-cheeked stranger. Clara felt something deeper. She felt a sense of duty, responsibility. She tried to excavate her feelings further. She wanted an answer; she wanted the truth. Someone on the crew must know something.
The front door was ajar, and Clara caught the scent of lilies. Once she and Gil stepped inside, they were consumed by the smell. She had to clap a hand over her nose and mouth to keep from gagging. As they crossed the terra-cotta tiled foyer, she could see that the long table in the hall was laden with masses of flowers. As they got closer, Clara saw handwritten notes addressed to “Babe” or “Miss Bannon,” and more than one teddy bear.
Horrified, Clara whispered to Gil, “The tributes from the gate.”
“It’s like a wake,” said Gil under his breath. They waded through the smell of ripe bouquets to the living room.
Despite its modest appearance from the street, the villa was expansive—it dropped down another floor and spread out, with incredible views from the living room over Hollywood and east to downtown. A knot of people stood by the lacquered bar, and others hovered near jewel-colored couches, but no one was brave enough to sit down. Clara felt out of her depth. She didn’t know anyone apart from Gil—perhaps Roger Brackett to say hi to, and of course Sam (if he showed up after his morning of fruitless cutting). The crew hung about, slightly uncertain, like extras waiting for the assistant director to cue them: “Background action!” and they would mime having a good time at a party.
Through an archway there was a dining room with a buffet of food laid out, and beyond the living room, patio doors led to a tiled terrace, a swimming pool, and landscaped grounds. There was a Moroccan theme to the furnishings: brightly colored pillows and throws, patterned tile, ornate mirrors. It took no time to locate their hostess. Babe Bannon was outside on the patio. Her voice—unmistakable—floated inside every so often. It kept Clara on her toes, reminding her that she was in the presence of Hollywood royalty.
At the bar the costume designer handed Clara a champagne cocktail, and Gil fixed himself a scotch and soda. Clara sipped from the shallow cocktail glass, tryin
g not to spill. She could hear half-hearted attempts to recount anecdotes of Connie.
“First time she saw the craft table, she asked me where to pay for her coffee.” Followed by a forced laugh.
“On the ‘martini shot’ she asked for a twist!” Everything on the craft table was free, and the “martini shot” was movie speak for the last setup of the day.
The stories trailed off. The intimacy was threadbare and gave the crew away. They hadn’t really known Connie. Many of the crew had worked at the studio for years, on movie after movie. Certain departments were literally a family affair. The studio was tight-knit, and Connie had only gotten the job a few weeks prior, at the start of filming. Before that, as an extra, she would have been herded around like cattle, a step down from the rest of the crew. According to Gil, she hadn’t worked as Bannon’s stand-in—or anyone’s stand-in—before.
Drinks in hand, Clara and Gil were crossing the room to find a seat when they came face to face with Barbara Bannon herself. She wore an ivory crepe evening gown, with capped sleeves, and drapery that clung to her curves. Her hair was down and she had minimal jewelry, just a huge ruby ring. The gem was the size of a raspberry. (Clara had read about it in a magazine. It was a gift from Quinn.)
“Gil,” Babe said, leaning forward, tilting her cheek so he could kiss it. “Haven’t seen you since the read-through. I figured you’d taken another movie.” She was smooth, unhurried. It was still unreal to see her smiling, living, breathing.
“I’m around,” said Gil. “Endless rewrites.”
“I suppose you blame me for that—don’t deny it.” Her eyes drifted to Clara. “And who’s this? Your secretary?” Babe’s long lashes blinked, and Clara felt like she’d undergone an X-ray.
“This is Clara Berg,” said Gil. “She works in editing.”
Bannon’s eyes flashed. “Tell me, before my resurrection, were you cutters trying to piece together a movie without me?”
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