Flustered, Clara groped for a response, but Bannon didn’t care to listen. She nodded to their cocktails. “I see you found the bar. There’s food in the dining room.” She glided past them to other guests. “You’ll have to serve yourselves,” she said over her shoulder. “My housekeeper practically dropped dead when she laid eyes on me. I sent her home for the day.”
Gil was pulled away by a group of guys who looked like teamsters—salt of the earth, burly guys, who were drinking beer instead of highballs—and Clara found herself on the velvet couches, where Mr. Brackett was holding court.
“So there we were carrying the Ping-Pong table into the swimming pool. The Racquet Club staff couldn’t tell off Clark Gable—who, by the way, is a sore loser at table tennis.” Everyone laughed, including Clara, but her eyes darted back to locate Bannon. Being around a famous person was like being near a lighthouse, her very presence a sweeping beam of light at once attracting your attention and warding you off. Clara watched Bannon cross the room, cocktail in hand. She paused to let one of the teamsters light her cigarette, and the rowdy conversation came to an abrupt halt as the men watched her. But Bannon didn’t linger. She sailed away, just out of reach.
After making tragic noises about the murder—the shock, the injustice, and some blaming studio security—the crew settled into their drinks and their anecdotes. Clara observed them. Their initial awkwardness had worn off. They could have been at any party. Had they forgotten why they were here? She supposed it was natural. Life was for living. But as the chatter and laughter grew, an acute sense of loneliness flooded over her.
She overheard Randall Holden chatting with the director of photography. “Billy Wilder told me once,” he said, leaning in conspiratorially, “that he never dates his leading lady. But the stand-in…” He changed his voice to mimic Billy Wilder’s German accent. “ ‘Just as pretty but a lot less trouble.’ ” Both men burst out laughing, and Clara felt rage bubble up on Connie’s behalf. The stand-in. She’s no trouble. Treat her however you want. A below-the-line girl, a nobody, someone replaceable. No one cared. Clara summoned Connie’s face from the newsprint. She felt a stinging prickle behind her eyes, a sharpness in the back of her throat. Her breath was hot. Fighting tears, she got up and left the room.
In the powder room next to the entryway, Clara splashed water on her face. On the wall there was a framed snapshot of Bannon and Quinn by the pool. Staring at them looking happy together, Clara had a vague recollection of a photo spread in House Beautiful, back when Quinn was alive. Gregory Quinn and Barbara Bannon open the doors to their hacienda in the Hollywood Hills. Clara had been sitting at the hairdresser’s, poring over the color photos—the same Moroccan tile, the same pool and stone patio. The article was fawning, of course. Quinn and Bannon played the part easily because they were truly in love. There had been a dog in those pictures—up on the lounger next to Bannon, floppy ears, lolling tongue. What was his name? Arthur, Augustus—something amusing and dignified that didn’t suit. There was no dog now.
Clara left the powder room and strolled around the main floor, voices and laughter drifting in and out from the living room. She could hear Babe entertaining the crew by reading her own obituaries. Peals of laughter and boos would rise and fall. “ ‘This column was not always a fan of her personal life.’ You don’t say,” Bannon quipped, and someone snickered. “ ‘But she had talent and beauty to burn.’ ”
Clara recognized the column: Hedda Hopper’s Hollywood. She had read the same obituary on the way to work on the streetcar. Hedda Hopper had always been critical of Barbara Bannon and hadn’t approved of her romance with Quinn, given that he’d technically still been married when they met. And over the years Bannon had been a target of Hopper’s barbs lamenting Hollywood morals.
Clara found herself in a long arched hallway off the dining room. The floor was covered with shiny terra-cotta tile, and the walls were lined with framed posters of Bannon’s films, as well as Quinn’s earlier movies. Clara stopped in front of the poster for Nightshade—Babe Bannon’s breakout role. In the illustration, Babe was painted in high-gloss Technicolor, and was cheek to cheek with Gregory Quinn. The golden couple. They looked perfect together—any age difference melted away.
As Clara reached the end of the hallway and the last framed movie poster, she heard voices, hushed but arguing. She froze in place and listened. The voices were coming from a little room off the side patio. It wasn’t lit, but she’d assumed it was a small office or a sunroom.
“Jesus, relax, will you?” She recognized the voice of Howard Hawks, the director, because she’d heard it dozens of times on the dailies footage, snapping at the crew and barking at Bannon. “No one will find out. Besides, she’s alive and well. Don’t worry about it.” Clara held her breath as she strained to listen, but the other voice was indistinct. She heard the snap of a lighter. A door opened and the voices faded. She could smell cigar smoke drifting inside from the patio.
Clara waited in the hallway for a few minutes to make sure the coast was clear. She repeated the words in her head. What was that about? Feeling like a trespasser, she thought it wise to return to the living room. As she walked back along the hallway, she heard a footstep on the tile. She spun around, her heart pounding.
“Escaping the crowd?” Gil smiled at her, and she felt instantly relieved, and grateful that he’d come to find her.
“Something like that.”
He drew alongside her, and she caught a hint of cigar smoke. Was he the other party in the conversation she had just overheard? “Did you come from outside?” she asked.
“Yeah, I was looking for you.” His eyes flickered over the poster of Nightshade. “Hollywood parties aren’t really my scene. Wanna get out of here?”
Clara nodded. “You read my mind.”
To get to the front door they had to cross the living room, where they found a dramatic performance underway: Babe Bannon, script in hand, voicing an unflattering impersonation of her co-star, while the gaffer (pitching his voice higher) did Bannon’s dialogue. The crew were in stitches—Randall Ford being the exception. He stewed near the patio doors. Bannon had the entire room captivated. It was at that moment, at the climax of her dramatic performance, with everyone in stitches and the booze still flowing, that the cops showed up.
The room hushed as Detectives Ireland and Rivetti strode across the rug, removing their hats. Just behind them was Conrad Pearce, the studio head. His arrival had more of an effect than that of the detectives, and the gaffer instantly sat up from his comically seductive pose on the couch.
“The door was open,” Ireland said, jerking his thumb toward the entryway.
“The grown-ups have arrived,” Bannon drawled. “Here to break up the party?”
“Sorry, folks.” Ireland gave an unconvincing smile.
Pearce folded his arms and gave the detectives a terse nod. Ireland stood in the center of the rug and addressed the crew. “Connie Milligan has been officially identified by the next of kin. Cause of death was strangulation.” The crew shifted uneasily; they looked guilty for having a good time.
“Poor kid,” said Bannon. She hugged the script to her chest.
The cops’ arrival had dampened everyone’s mood; the reality of the murder had set in again, and people began to leave. Clara was used to this change in tone. It was the same at her parents’ refugee parties. There would come a certain point in the evening when the past would rush in—a shadow cast at a moment of merriment. Someone would start crying, the music would stop, and Clara would be asked to make a pot of coffee.
As the party quickly thinned, the detectives approached Babe. “A word, Miss Bannon. In private.” Babe showed them outside to the patio, still clutching her script. The detectives closed the patio doors behind them.
“Let’s go,” said Gil, with a light touch on her back.
But just then Brackett summ
oned him to a huddle with Mr. Pearce and Howard Hawks. “Could use your input on this schedule, old sport.”
Gil gave Clara a resigned smile. “Back in a minute.”
Clara could hear car doors slam and tires on gravel as people left. Waiting for Gil and not wanting to hover, she gravitated to Bannon’s kitchen, which partially overlooked the patio and pool. Maybe a window was open so that she could hear something. The kitchen was a mess of glasses and picked-over plates of cold salmon and roast chicken—the crew hadn’t had much of an appetite. Clara got the coffee percolating and found some cups. She lingered by the window. The detectives were shadows on the patio. Bannon was pacing; the edge of her gown would catch the pool lights every so often. Unable to resist the prickle in her fingertips, Clara unfastened the catch and gently pushed open the window.
“Did she have a date that night?” It was Ireland’s voice. Clara waited for the answer.
“That’s what I assumed,” said Bannon, a little edge to her voice.
“Who with?” asked Rivetti.
“I don’t know, Detective.” She sounded impatient. “She was my stand-in, not my best friend. I told her sure, she could use my dressing room. I didn’t hang around and give her the third degree.”
Clara’s heart thumped with this new piece of knowledge. Connie had had a date the night she was killed—with Lloyd? And she never showed. Is that why he’d suspected something was wrong this morning? Clara leaned closer to the window to catch what they were saying next.
“What time did you leave the lot?” Ireland again.
“I don’t know, exactly,” said Bannon.
“Big Bear—that’s quite a drive, late at night.” Clara couldn’t tell if it was Ireland or Rivetti. Their voices were fainter.
Bannon must have turned away, because Clara couldn’t discern more than a mumble now, the voices tuning in and out like a radio frequency. Clara stood there frozen, straining for intelligible words. But all she could hear was her pulse thumping in her ears.
The coffeepot hissed and sputtered, and Clara started. She attended to the coffee and went to the icebox to get the cream. There was no cream; there was no real food at all. Instead she found bottles of champagne, exotic fruit, small jars of expensive-looking pâté, smoked oysters, and olives.
“That coffee ready?”
Clara spun around, as though she’d been caught stealing. It was Detective Rivetti. “Get a cup for Miss Bannon.” He jerked his head in the direction of the patio. “She should go easy on those highballs.”
Clara poured a cup of black coffee. She felt the uptick of her pulse as she realized that an audience with Bannon awaited. She walked through the living room toward the patio doors and cast a glance at Gil—stuck in a huddle of studio people and now joined by the detectives. Quietly she let herself out the patio door, heart thumping against her rib cage, the cup rattling in its saucer.
She found Bannon lying in the dark on a sun lounger, gripping her highball, staring at the pool. The underwater lights cast an eerie glow across her face.
Clara needed both hands to still the cup and saucer as she drew next to the movie star. She cleared her throat to announce herself, feeling silly, like a butler in an old movie. She put the cup on a side table next to the lounger.
Bannon glanced at the coffee. “Thanks, honey.” An invisible string pulled a smile like a reflex, then slackened. The script sat on her lap covered in ring marks from her glass.
“Are you all right, Miss Bannon?” Clara nearly bit her lip at the sound of her schoolgirl voice.
“Sit with me,” Bannon said. Her voice was low and rich. It was an appeal rather than an order. Who wouldn’t oblige this woman?
Clara sank down onto the other lounger. The seat was too low to sit comfortably. She hunched over, her knees almost brushing her chin. She was the opposite of Bannon’s relaxed grace, legs stretched out as though posing for a photo shoot.
Bannon looked down at the script on her lap. “Connie left this in my dressing room.” A long beat. “The cops said she fought back.” Her words had a rough edge.
Clara shifted in her seat, unsure what to say. “I was the one who found her.” Bannon’s head snapped up. Clara went on, “The left side of her face was badly beaten. With the costume and the blond hair, I assumed…”
Bannon swirled the remains of her drink around, the ice cubes long since melted. “I hope they fry the bastard.”
Clara recalled Connie’s photo in the paper, her sunny smile. “Me too.”
They sat in silence, save for the whirring of a cricket. Clara couldn’t resist the itch of curiosity. “What was she like? Connie?”
Bannon shook her head. “I didn’t really know her.” The actress tossed the dregs of her cocktail into a planter and set the glass down hard on the tile patio. “I mean, sure, we talked on set a few times, between setups, if I didn’t go back to my dressing room. She was new; I didn’t take the time.”
Clara leaned forward. “Do the cops have any leads?”
Bannon rolled her eyes. “They’re going to put a squad car out in front of the house. Keep an eye on me.”
“Why? They think…?”
“That it was supposed to be me in the vault—it’s a theory.” She gave a hard little laugh. “Between me and the stand-in—who do you think has more enemies in this town?” Clara watched her closely, and wondered if the movie star seemed a bit reckless. There was a fire in her eye, something simmering beneath the surface.
Clara glanced back to the house. She should get going.
“You’re Gil’s girl?” Bannon asked, out of nowhere.
“We’re friends,” said Clara, a hint defensive. She folded her arms across her chest.
“Ah.” Babe smirked and let her eyes rest on Clara. “I used to be friends with him too.” Her voice was feather light.
“I know,” said Clara, not wanting her to think Gil kept things from her. “The acting class.”
Babe barked a laugh. “I thought he tried to blot out that memory.” Her gaze drifted past Clara. “August ’42,” she said, reminiscing. She shook her head softly and sighed. “The end of something—of Ruby, I suppose, and the start of a new life.”
It was the same feeling as the projector coming to life on the big screen, like a movie playing as she spoke. Barbara Bannon—back when she’d been Ruby Kaminsky, back before Gil had been called up. Together in acting class. Together.
“He liked me better back then,” Babe said, her voice harder. “I was someone else, someone nicer.”
Clara flushed crimson in the darkness. The realization illuminated like a neon sign on Sunset: Love. Bright pink letters pulsing in the sky over the pool—flashing at her, mocking her. Gil and Babe Bannon.
Of course. He had been in love with her.
Clara replayed their conversation, the night of the murder when he drove her home. He had said nothing to imply a relationship, but from the way Bannon spoke, there was no denying it. Clara had been caught up with her own confession that night, and she hadn’t pressed him on his history with Ruby.
Bannon picked up the script on her lap. “Letter from Argentan. Christ—who wants to see a war picture these days?” Without warning, she flung the script into the pool. They watched it bob for a moment before it settled into a teetering glide. The underwater lights illuminated its progress as it reached the other side of the pool, water soaking through the pages marked Property of Silver Pacific Studios.
Abruptly Bannon pulled herself out of the sun lounger and disappeared inside. Clara glanced at the untouched cup of coffee and shivered. She should find Gil, get a ride home. But her gaze was drawn back to the pool. Before she could second-guess herself, she had darted around to the far side. She knelt down. It was a stretch, but she fished the sodden script out of the water and laid it on the tile in a puddle of water. Connie’s copy of the scri
pt. Why had Bannon hung on to it? Clara squinted at it. There was handwriting on the cover page. The ink had run, but it looked like a phone number. She angled it to the light. Maybe Spring 3191 or something close to it. Impetuously Clara tore off the page and folded it up into a neat square.
“Clara?”
She started at the sound of a male voice and saw Gil standing at the open patio door, shards of light from the house slicing across his face.
“Come on. Let’s go.”
* * *
—
They drove along the canyon ridge, and Clara gripped the soft leather of her seat. She could feel the growl of the engine vibrating underneath her, the conversation with Bannon turning over in her mind. Clara had gone to the party to find out something about Connie Milligan. Instead, she had learned more than she bargained for about Babe Bannon. She replayed the moment after they’d arrived, when the movie star had leaned forward and Gil had kissed her cheek.
Is he still in love with her?
A breeze whispered through the canyon and snaked across Clara’s neck. With the breath of air, she felt a presence, as though Babe Bannon herself was perched on the rumble seat behind them, enjoying the drama she had caused.
Around a bend, the city came into view; the city lights glittered for miles.
“I wonder what the cops wanted?” said Gil, downshifting. “They didn’t drive up the canyon for nothing.”
“I overheard them talking to Babe.” Saying her name aloud gave Clara a small charge of electricity. “She had let Connie use her dressing room that night.”
Gil shook his head. “Poor kid.” It was the same thing Bannon had said. “They’re looking at Tuesday,” he went on, “to start filming again—they’re not missing a beat.”
“Right,” said Clara. “The stand-in can easily be replaced, but not Barbara Bannon.” She watched him to see if this sparked something.
Clara decided she wouldn’t divulge that she knew about Gil’s past with Ruby. Instinctively she felt that it was something to hold close, something she shouldn’t give away. They drove down the canyon into the beating heart of the city.
The Silver Blonde Page 6