The Silver Blonde

by Elizabeth Ross

  Rita drifted over and dropped an envelope into the outgoing-mail tray. “It’s awful,” she said. “That poor girl.” She sounded full of awe rather than pity.

  Clara surveyed the three of them over the counter. She wasn’t fooled by their sudden interest in her. It wasn’t friendliness, or concern—it was curiosity. Their ears were pricked, their eyes hungry, and they were almost salivating. What they really wanted was gossip; they wanted gory details; they wanted the murder.

  “I’m surprised you came back to work,” Rita said, waggling her pen back and forth, majorette style, between her fingers. She had hair like the Dreyers’ spaniel, dark and wavy. “I wouldn’t blame you if you quit.” Her head was cocked to one side, her eyes bright.

  “I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”

  Normally when Clara entered accounting, the girls would be gossiping and blatantly ignore her. She knew that they thought she was stuck up. Clara was a loner who didn’t belong to a group, which made her hard to classify. She would survey them coolly, stuck behind their typewriters, while she was armed with her cans of film. It put a zip in her step to think of them trapped at their desks, sullen and bored, typing contracts, punching numbers, licking stamps. What did they know about filmmaking? A brush with stardom, a celebrity sighting, or a secondhand anecdote was as close as they would come to film. They might work at the studio, but they would never conquer it like Clara was planning to.

  “I mean,” Marianne stage-whispered, “are any of us even safe at the studio?” They were all relishing the crime, like passersby rubbernecking at a car crash. Doris darted to her desk and grabbed the newspaper. She snapped it open and held it up. the silver blonde murder was splashed across the front page.

  Clara had seen the headlines. On the streetcar that morning the man seated next to her had been poring over the same article. The reference was a nod to the studio’s heyday when the contract starlet du jour—always a blonde—would be the face of the Silver Pacific logo, the figure in Grecian robes at the start of every movie. The newspaper hacks had needed a moniker for Connie Milligan. She hadn’t been a movie star or a celebrity—she wouldn’t be selling papers with her own name. Connie was a below-the-line girl no one had heard of, just like Clara and the accounting girls. It could just as easily have been one of them.

  “Did you know her?” Rita asked Clara.

  Clara shook her head. “No.”

  “I loaned her a bobby pin once,” said Marianne. “We were in the ladies by the commissary.”

  “You don’t know it was her,” said Doris, rolling her eyes.

  “I have an excellent memory for faces,” replied Marianne, indignant.

  “Did the cops tell you anything?” asked Rita.

  “Do they have any leads, or a suspect?” Doris chimed in. “What have you heard?”

  To be in the center of a gaggle of girls, that rush of energy, the intensity, it had been a long time since Clara had felt part of a group like that. “They didn’t tell me anything,” she admitted. Technically this was true. It was Babe Bannon who revealed the cops’ theory that the killer might have gotten the wrong girl. The accounting girls would eat this up, of course, but Clara didn’t feel like sharing. She was guarded about the details of the case.

  Rita leaned on the counter. “I saw Connie Milligan and that fellow you work with—the redhead.” Her eyes were steady on Clara.

  “You mean Lloyd? Yes, they were friends.”

  “You should keep your eye on him,” said Rita darkly.

  “Lloyd?” Clara let out a laugh.

  “I’m serious.” Rita cast a furtive glance at the others.

  Clara’s mind was whirring. They knew something, and they might be persuaded to share, but she would have to give something to get something. Clara leaned her elbows on the counter that separated them. “I did overhear something.” She took her time, and the accounting girls held their breath. “The cops said Connie borrowed Babe Bannon’s dressing room the night she was murdered. They think she was getting ready for a date.”

  Doris jumped in. “With the vault boy?”

  “Maybe,” said Clara, wanting to tease out more information. “What do you have against Lloyd?”

  Marianne and Doris looked to Rita, who pretended to struggle with whether to share her story. She tossed her hair back. “When I started at the studio, back in the fall, I was at a diner on Melrose. I was sitting up at the counter having a soda, and Lloyd was in a booth with his uncle—the casting executive Trace Lester, as I later found out. Lloyd came up to me, asked if I’d ever considered being “in movies,” layering on the compliments. I wasn’t about to tell him I was only an accounting clerk. He gave me his uncle’s Silver Pacific business card, wrote his own name on the back, and said to call the office and mention ‘Lloyd,’ and that would get me past the secretary.”

  “Did you call?” asked Clara.

  “What do you think? Of course I did—I was curious. ‘Actress’ sounds more exciting than ‘accountant.’ Like Lloyd said, I got straight through to Mr. Lester, who told me to come in for an audition at seven-thirty p.m.”

  Clara’s stomach tightened; she saw where this was leading. “And the audition?”

  Rita composed herself. “Compliments one second, hands everywhere the next. When I told him to back off, he followed up with threats: ‘You’ll never make it as an actress without some help; you don’t want to be blacklisted.’ I pushed him off and told him where to stick his threats. I told him that acting was a lark but I wasn’t serious. I already had a decent job in accounting at this very studio, and the head accountant wouldn’t be amused if I told him what Mr. Lester was proposing. After I said that, he changed his tune and apologized.” She shuddered. “I hightailed it out of there.”

  “And did you tell your boss?”

  “What would I say? It’s my own fault—audition after hours.” Rita shook her head. “I blame Lloyd, of course. He acts the innocent, he’s the seemingly harmless lure teeing up Red Riding Hood for auditions with the Wolf.”

  “I had no idea,” said Clara, horrified. She wondered how much Lloyd knew about his uncle’s “casting” methods.

  “What if Connie met Lloyd the same way Rita did?” Doris said. “But she played along?”

  Clara nodded, considering it. “The detectives said she worked at the Vista as an usherette and did some background work. To go from that to—”

  “Stand-in for a big movie star,” Marianne said, finishing her sentence. “It’s a plum job.”

  Rita folded her arms with a Told you so expression. “Somebody pulled strings for her.”

  Doris’s phone rang, and at the same time the payroll accountant came out of his office, asking Rita to find a contract. Their chitchat was over and the girls filed back to their desks.

  After accounting, Clara headed straight for the film archive. She mulled it over. She’d heard stories about the film industry and the casting couch—but that was nothing to do with her world in postproduction, and it always struck her as an exaggeration or not the kind of thing that could possibly go on at Silver Pacific. Now she felt foolish and naive. The thought of Lloyd being mixed up in this turned her stomach. He always bragged about his uncle, which irked Miss Simkin, who knew it would only be a matter of time before Lloyd was promoted to some executive office and given four times her salary.

  When she entered the film archive, there was a new boy at her desk—her replacement. “Is Lloyd around?” asked Clara, not bothering to introduce herself. The new kid—skinny with acne scars—appeared petrified by Clara’s question. He didn’t have a chance to answer.

  “Lloyd’s not in this morning.” Miss Simkin materialized in the doorway of her office.

  “Is he sick?” said Clara innocently, probing for more information.

  “He’ll be in tomorrow.” By her tone of voice and pinched face, Clara
knew that Simkin wouldn’t reveal more. Clara’s mind started spinning with possible scenarios.

  “Did you meet Walter, your replacement?” said Simkin, changing the subject. “He’s just finding his feet.” Simkin gave him a decisive nod, as close to a smile as she knew how, and Walter shifted in his seat. Miss Simkin pointed to the stack of reels on Clara’s old desk. “Given that we’re a bit shorthanded, Clara, would you mind giving these reels to Max?” Clara opened her mouth to make an excuse, but Simkin was ready for it. “Sam’s not going to have much for you to do this morning; there’s no new footage.” Before Clara could push back, Miss Simkin was handing over the film canisters.

  * * *

  —

  Clara’s first official day as apprentice editor, and here she was running reels to the screening room. She could have kicked herself for setting foot in the archive. Would she ever be free of Miss Simkin’s marching orders? Clara skirted the fountain outside the grand art deco entrance of the executive building. Balancing the film canisters under one arm, she opened the door and crossed the marble lobby, which was lined with photographs of the studio’s early days as well as its biggest contract stars.

  In the executive building she usually felt a heightened awareness of other people, the prickle of static, the pulse of possibility. Film stars could often be glimpsed crossing the lobby, going to meetings with Mr. Pearce, or chatting with one of his flock of executives. But today she didn’t even slow her pace by the awards cabinet. The Oscar statues couldn’t distract her. As she descended the stairwell leading to the basement level and Mr. Pearce’s screening room, all she could think about was Connie’s murder.

  She had several unanswered questions: Connie and Lloyd. What was their backstory, how had she landed the stand-in job, and had it involved Lloyd’s uncle? Whose phone number did Connie write on her script, and did it have something to do with her date the night she was killed? And then there was Babe Bannon. Could she have been the intended victim, or were the cops just paying lip service to a film star? And the night of the party, who was Hawks telling not to worry? No one will find out—besides, she’s alive and well. All these questions hung like the selects of footage in Sam’s trim bin, not yet cut together. If Clara could find some answers, the pieces would fit together and tell a story—the truth of what had happened to Connie.

  Along the basement corridor, Clara passed the framed photographs of behind-the-scenes shots—they were all candid pictures taken on various film sets, and not the posed glamor shots on display in the lobby. She must have passed them dozens of times without noticing. But today one photograph caught her eye. Clara stopped and stared. It was a shot of Bette Davis and her stand-in. The caption was titled Seeing Double.

  Bette Davis (left) and her stand-in, Sally Sage, pictured together on the set and in costume. They resemble each other considerably and are the same size, even to shoes and gloves. They bring their knitting on set to help pass any idle moments.

  Clara moved closer. The women were similar, but they weren’t twins. Bette Davis—instantly recognizable—was obviously the star. Her costume was more detailed and refined. The movie star and her shadow. How much had Connie truly resembled Babe Bannon? Clara had mistaken her in the vaults, but her headshot in the paper looked nothing like Bannon. Clara read the caption once more. The photographer’s name was credited. And then it hit her: still photography. There would surely be behind-the-scenes photos like this from the Argentan set. If she could get her hands on those photos, what would they reveal?

  Chapter Eleven

  Stage Fourteen

  AT THE END OF the day, when Clara stepped out of the postproduction building, she spotted Gil leaning against a wall. The sun was low in the west, and it bathed the white stages and office buildings in golden light. Gil stubbed out his cigarette and sauntered toward her. “Wanna stroll for a minute?” he asked.

  His question was casual, but knowing he had been waiting for her made Clara swell inside. “Sure.”

  “How was your first day?” Gil asked. “We missed you at lunch.”

  Clara smiled, feeling proud but not wanting to show it. “It was pretty good.”

  “No more slumming it with the writers,” he teased.

  After Sam had shown up, the day had moved into gear. Clara was shown the routine for dailies, organizing the paperwork—camera and sound reports, the script supervisor notes, and codebook logs. Sam had explained that the assistant editors on the Western next door would do the heavy lifting of syncing dailies and conforming reels. Eventually she would be trained to do these tasks as well. She had eaten lunch with Sam and the assistant editors. From time to time her eyes would flit to the writers’ table, scanning for Gil. The afternoon sped past, and thoughts of Connie and her murder were pushed to the back of Clara’s mind as she was happily distracted by her new job. All the chaos and upset of the past few days faded, and her film dreams came into sharper focus once more.

  Gil gave Clara a friendly nudge. “Hey, I’m sorry about the other night—drinks at the Formosa. With everything that happened…” He trailed off. “How about tonight? You got plans?”

  Clara was tempted. “I shouldn’t,” she sighed. “My folks are bent out of shape about me working at the studio. I promised them I’d be home for dinner tonight.” It wasn’t an excuse—it was the truth. But the minute she’d said it, she regretted refusing his offer.

  Gil nodded. “No sweat.”

  Clara was glad he was trying to make it up to her, but she was still bothered. Where was he that night? She had to broach it somehow—there was something he wasn’t telling her.

  As if he could read her mind, he asked, “What’s wrong? I saw you drift away for a second.”

  She shook her head. “It’s nothing, really. It’s just, on Thursday night I called your extension, and even if you were next door on Roger’s couch, you would have heard the phone. Remember, you complained that the office walls were like paper?”

  Gil stopped walking and turned to her. His blue eyes were like cut glass in the low sun. “You got a few minutes? I want to show you something.” He sounded serious.

  “Okay.” A little unnerved, Clara strode with him along the alleyways between the vast stages, avoiding golf carts and trucks full of equipment. “Where are we going?” she asked.

  His face was grave. “Not far.” Finally they stopped in front of stage fourteen. “In here.” He gestured to the side door, and they stepped out of Los Angeles and into the summer of 1944 and the Allied invasion of France. “The battle set,” said Gil. His voice was a little thick. Clara had never seen this set before. It was the bombed-out town of Argentan in Normandy during the deadly eight-day skirmish. American troops had fought the Nazis for control of the town.

  “God, it looks so real,” said Clara. The designer had done an excellent job with the ruins of the French village: walls riddled with bullets, burned-out buildings, shell damage, everyday items—a child’s pram, a lady’s shoe—in piles of rubble.

  “Watch your step.” He took her hand and helped her over a pile of fake bricks.

  There were a couple of art department guys—a plasterer and a matte painter—finishing some work. “Over here,” said Gil, and they approached the matte painter. Gil nodded to him. “Mind if we take a look?”

  The matte painter, in paint-speckled overalls, stepped off his apple box to let them look at his work. “Go ahead. Watch out—some of the brushwork isn’t dry.” He walked away, wiping his brushes on his overalls.

  Clara climbed onto the apple box. It was a painting on a plate of glass that extended the bounds of the set to make it look as though there were a whole town in the background. When the camera was placed at the right position in front of the glass, the set would meld seamlessly with the painted extension.

  “It’s really neat,” said Clara as the real set blended with the painted one. “It’s like a magic trick.
”

  “On film it will look even more convincing,” said Gil, switching places with her to have a look.

  “I don’t get it,” said Clara. “Why did you want to show me this?”

  Gil got down off the apple box and they moved away from the matte painting. He stopped and surveyed the battle-scarred set. “You asked where I was the other night,” said Gil, nudging a piece of masonry with his foot. “I wasn’t at my desk. I was here.”

  Clara turned to him, puzzled. “Why?”

  “On Friday we were supposed to shoot the flashback battle scenes. Brackett wanted me on set—normally he likes me chained to the typewriter, but on that day, because of my combat experience, Brackett thought it would be useful to have me around: ‘Authenticity, old sport. Make sure they get it right,’ ” said Gil, impersonating Brackett.

  “Oh,” said Clara. “I see.”

  “I was preparing myself, I guess. Brackett never thought to ask whether I wanted to be back in a war zone.” Gil rubbed a hand across his stubble.

  Clara surveyed the set. “And all of this, it’s too real,” she said.

  He nodded. The war loomed, that unspoken destroyer they chose not to talk about, the event that had shaped both their lives.

  Gil bit his lip. “Sometimes I get these”—he blinked quickly—“these episodes, I guess you’d call it. Something will trigger it—a car backfiring, a clap of thunder, the smell and sound of fireworks. And when it hits, it’s more than a memory.” He took a sharp breath. “It’s like my body thinks I’m back there. Adrenaline, fear, it shoots through me.” He made a sweeping motion down his arm. “I break out in a sweat, I need to find cover—get my back against a wall, I’m reaching for my sidearm.” His hand grasped to his right side where an imaginary pistol might be holstered. “You get the picture.” He shook his head, suddenly self-conscious, and let out a long breath, the relief that comes after a confession.