“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” said Clara.
“I’m like a dog on the Fourth of July, I guess—it’s pathetic.”
“Not at all; it makes sense.” She put a hand on his arm and felt how tense he was. “Brackett’s an idiot for not considering how it would affect you.”
Gil sighed. “It’s just pretend.” He gestured to the set. “It’s make-believe. Smoke and mirrors.” He looked down, his expression pained.
“How long did you stay here, on the set?” she asked.
He gave a half shrug. “I don’t know exactly. It brought back some memories, and I just sat with them for a bit.” He ground a loose piece of plaster to dust.
As a rule, they never talked about the war, which suited Clara—skirting her German past was second nature. But she was curious about Gil’s experience, so different from hers.
Clara turned back to look at the matte painting, but seen from the wrong angle, the effect vanished. “From over here, the painting looks unfinished—that big void in the middle,” she commented.
Gil gave a hollow laugh. “Reminds me of how I felt when peace was declared—we’d won; I’d never felt so lost.”
“I know what you mean,” said Clara quietly. “I spent years wanting the war to end, and when it finally happened I realized that nothing would return to the way it was.”
He shook his head softly. “It’s too late, I guess.” There was a crack in his voice. When their eyes met, Clara wanted to take him in her arms. She wanted to know all of his pain and take it away.
The matte painter approached them. “We’re wrapping up for the day. Stage manager will lock up if you’re done here.”
Gil nodded. “Sure, we’re done.”
“Thanks,” Clara added.
They headed for the stage door. “Hey, Clara.” Gil scratched his head. “Look, you mind not saying anything about this to anyone?” He gave a throwaway shrug. “I don’t, usually, you know, share that stuff.”
“Of course I won’t.” She was flattered he had opened up to her—for once. She felt singled out. Worthy of his trust. He held the door open for her and she brushed past him—aftershave, cigarettes, body heat.
After they left the stage, they were bathed in warm light again and the memories of war shriveled and vanished. “Maybe tomorrow or Wednesday,” Clara said casually. “Drinks after work.”
Gil smiled into a slant of golden light, eyes twinkling. “It’s a date.”
Chapter Twelve
Rear Projection
THE NEXT MORNING CLARA was on a coffee run for the assistant editors when she finally caught sight of Lloyd. She hadn’t seen him since the tributes at the gate, when he’d told her about knowing Connie. She felt herself tense up; she knew she had to confront him. Instead of heading for the café, she followed him from a distance. He was heading to the process stage, carrying a canister of film, and she watched as he disappeared through a side door.
Stage eight was painted with the words “Process Stage” in fading blue letters. Clara tugged hard on the heavy door until it admitted her into that blanket of cool darkness marked by a musty, faintly chemical smell. Her eyes adjusted to the dim light. All sorts of scenes used rear projection—whether it was a location that would be expensive or complicated to film, like the middle of the ocean or Paris, or everyday scenes, like a driving scene, or a busy street. The actors would be filmed in front of a screen projecting the right background. Today it was a train carriage, and the screen behind would project scenery rolling past.
Clara made her way across the studio, around lights and over a dolly track, and eventually behind the large screen. Lloyd was at the projector, struggling to load the reel of film.
“Want some help?”
When he saw it was Clara, he gave a warm smile. “Thank God you’re here. I’m supposed to test the reel before this afternoon’s shoot. Projectionist’s call time isn’t until noon.”
Clara helped him load the reel and turn on the projector. Images of the English countryside rolled by—thatched cottages and fields dotted with sheep. They moved to the other side of the screen to see the effect of the landscape sweeping past the train windows, giving the impression that the train was moving.
“Where were you yesterday?” asked Clara. “Out sick?”
“At the cop shop.” Lloyd rolled his eyes. “Helping them with ‘inquiries.’ ”
“Really?” Clara’s coolness hadn’t registered with him yet. “Did they give you a hard time?”
He gave a half-hearted laugh. “You could say that.”
Instinctively they wandered toward the train interior, and Lloyd sat down wearily in the first-class carriage. Clara sat opposite him, and it must have looked as though they were off on a day trip.
“You were gone all day. What happened?” she said.
Lloyd leaned forward and put his head in his hands. “They grilled me for hours because I knew Connie, because she was found in the vaults.” Lloyd rubbed his face, then leaned back against the upholstered seat. “Detective Rivetti is a real cretin,” he muttered. He looked at Clara through his long fringe of sandy hair. He seemed suddenly much younger, like a schoolboy who’d been separated from the group.
“What did they want to know? If you had a date with her that night?”
His eyes narrowed. “How did you know?”
Clara shrugged. “Just a guess.”
“I didn’t have a date with Connie. And that’s what I told the cops for hours on end.” He turned and looked out the window as the countryside whipped by, craggier hills, rivers, and glens. Maybe it was Scotland, not England. Clara waited for him to go on.
“I was at a deli on Fairfax,” said Lloyd finally. “Chatting up a waitress, or trying to—she has a boyfriend. Took long enough to track her down yesterday. Detective Rivetti was ready to throw away the key. But she finally confirmed my story, that I was at the counter all evening.”
“Were you and Connie ever an item?” Clara didn’t take her eyes off him.
“No, just friends—when I was useful to her, I guess.” He gave a resigned smile. “She ran hot and cold like that.”
“What do you mean ‘useful’—did you help her get the job on Argentan?”
Lloyd shook his head. “No.”
Clara cocked her head. “It’s quite a leap from the usherette to a movie star’s stand-in. Seems like she would need to know someone?”
Lloyd didn’t answer.
Clara brushed her hand across the plaid upholstery. “What about your uncle in casting? I’ve heard stories…” She watched Lloyd’s face darken. “Is that how Connie got on the lot—a late-night audition?”
He winced like she’d poked him. “No, she never met my uncle. Look, we were friends. We met at the Vista. We chatted about movies; she’d let me into the double features for free. Connie needed a lucky break, something better than working at the movie theater.” He was getting hot under the collar. “And no, I didn’t send her to my uncle,” he said indignantly. “I know his reputation.” He raked a hand through his hair. “Well, I do now,” he added sheepishly.
“So how did you help her, exactly?” asked Clara. She was getting impatient.
Lloyd traced the studded leather of the armrest. “I got her some extra work on the lot, crowd stuff. My uncle doesn’t bother with low-level things like that. The extras casting woman is really nice.” He lifted his shoulders. “It was easy.”
Clara raised an eyebrow. “That doesn’t explain how she got to be Bannon’s stand-in.”
He vaguely shook his head. “She figured that out herself. But it wasn’t anything to do with me. She was pretty giddy about it. I mean, it was a union gig, decent pay, and she got her own dressing room.”
“Huh.” Clara chewed it over. “Last Thursday, do you know who she was meeting that night? She used Bannon’
s dressing room, and the cops think she was going on a date.”
“No idea.” He shook his head thoughtfully. “But something changed in her when she started on that movie.”
Clara frowned. “Changed in what way?”
“She was moody. Some days she was okay, happy even, but other times she was serious, kinda sad. I saw less and less of her. I guess she worked long hours. The last time I saw her, I teased her about it—told her they lightened her hair and her mood got darker.”
“They changed her hair?” said Clara.
“Yeah. I guess the director wanted her the spit of Bannon. Her natural hair color was a couple shades darker.”
This detail struck Clara for some reason. She leaned back in her seat and gazed out the window at the fake view, mulling it over. “Why ‘the spit’ of Bannon?”
Lloyd shrugged. “Isn’t that the stand-in’s job? To resemble the actress?”
“But Connie wasn’t a body double—she never appeared on camera. Why did Howard Hawks need her to be that exact shade of blond?”
“They use the stand-in to set the lights, do the blocking. Maybe her hair color affected the lighting? Maybe the director of photography requested it?”
“But it’s a black-and-white movie—doesn’t that seem like overkill to you? Besides, you just said it was the director.”
“I don’t know who it was.” He let out a long sigh, annoyed by all the questions.
“Well, someone on the movie wanted her a dead ringer for Bannon.” Clara stopped short when she realized what she’d said. The words crackled in the air, a live wire between them: a dead ringer.
Through the train windows the screen flickered to white. The reel had run out of film. In that instant Clara recalled the photo of Bette Davis and her stand-in. “Lloyd,” she said, leaning forward, “you have friends in the publicity department, right?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. “Could you get ahold of some stills—behind the scenes on the Argentan set? It might tell us something.”
Lloyd nodded. “Sure, I can try.”
“Good. Anything else you can remember about Connie? Any small detail, like the hair thing, something she said or did recently that sticks out in your memory?”
He thought for a moment. “She always said she was fated to work here.”
Clara turned sharply. “What does that mean?”
Lloyd swept the hair from his eyes. “I don’t know. I guess I thought she meant Hollywood. Like she’d always dreamed of it, and it came true. But now, I’m not so sure what she meant.” His eyes met Clara’s. “That movie, Letter from Argentan—she was mixed up in something. I know it.”
Clara waited while Lloyd rewound the reel and turned off the projector. They were walking out of the process stage when Clara remembered the phone number on Connie’s script. “Lloyd, do you recognize this number?” She scribbled it onto the back of her paper with the coffee orders—she had memorized it by now. “SPRING three-one-nine-one, or something close to it?”
Lloyd squinted at it. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Look at it. You’re sure? It was on the cover of Connie’s script.”
He shook his head. “No clue.”
She watched him closely. Affable Lloyd, the friendly retriever: that was how she’d always thought of him. But since the murder, Clara couldn’t be sure about him—about anyone. It was strange to think that there were hidden layers to Lloyd that she’d not seen before. But then, no one is just one thing.
Chapter Thirteen
Letter from Argentan
LLOYD’S SINISTER FEELING ABOUT the Argentan set stayed with Clara, but what could she do about it? Despite being a member of the crew, she worked in the postproduction building. She didn’t have access to the set and the action of the film shoot.
However, the opportunity to get onto the set came unexpectedly the following afternoon when Sam asked her to deliver a list of pickup shots—inserts and missing pieces he needed for scenes they’d already shot. “Give it to the script supervisor,” he said. “She’ll know when to broach it with Howard and the assistant director.” Clara took the list. “And avoid any studio executives,” he called after her. “Pearce will put his foot down about adding shots to the schedule.”
* * *
—
Clara stood outside the stage, waiting for the red wigwag to stop flashing. When the camera had stopped rolling, the light went off, and a production assistant opened the door to let her in. Finally, she had been admitted to the action and buzz of the set, and not as a lowly vault girl but as a member of the crew, someone with a purpose. It was the real business of moviemaking, the actors and cameras and stage lights, and so many people. Stage eleven, the mansion house set, had transformed since Friday’s announcement. Today under the stage lights it seemed as grand and believable as the real thing: parquet floors, stone fireplaces, and lavish furnishings. Clara held the pickup shot list like a VIP ticket. It was her permission to be there.
As she picked her way over cables and dolly tracks, she surveyed the crew, scanning for the script supervisor. The camera was on a huge crane, and there were a myriad of lights and flags set up in the entrance hall of the mansion. What had Connie made of all this? It was a far cry from taking tickets in a dark cinema. The reminder caught her like a pinched nerve.
The script supervisor was easy to spot, there being so few women on set. Clara’s surface mission accomplished, she turned to the real task at hand: information. What kind of drama or intrigue might Connie have been caught up in on the film set? Clara also wanted to get more background on the actors’ feud. And what about Hawks? She still had no explanation for that conversation she’d overheard: No one will find out. Find out what?
Clara lingered by the craft table and helped herself to coffee. She was working up the gumption to talk to someone when she saw a familiar face. “Mr. Brackett!”
He was stirring sugar into his iced tea. “Girl Friday, how’s the new job? You here to have a little look-see?” He took a sip. “Follow me.” He took her by the elbow. “Front-row seat.”
Chaperoned by Mr. Brackett, Clara was guided nearer the set and the throng of actors and hair and makeup people at the side of the stage. There were temporary dressing tables set up and canvas chairs with important people’s names on the back.
“How’s the shoot going?” asked Clara.
“Fortunately, all the drama is on-screen, for a change. Everyone seems to be on their best behavior.” He nodded toward the mansion set, where Babe Bannon and Randall Ford were walking through a rehearsal with Howard Hawks.
“What was it usually like?”
Mr. Brackett raised an eyebrow. “Randall could be quite vindictive. You know what I heard?” He had a wicked glint in his eye, and he leaned closer. “In the scene where the widow looks at the framed photographs on the piano—you remember, she picks up that one of her beloved in uniform—well, Randall had the props man replace it with a picture of Gregory Quinn. Can you believe it?” Mr. Brackett shook his head. “What a swine.”
“Nasty,” said Clara, genuinely horrified.
“The wonderful world of moviemaking. And Howard is still changing lines on us, last-minute. He pretends to the studio that it’s all Bannon’s fault—says she refuses to say the scripted dialogue—but it’s his little ruse. He never liked the character as written—”
“The wet noodle?”
“Exactly. Hawksian women are strong, independent. Whereas Mr. Pearce’s tastes run more traditional and rather boring.” He nudged her. “Don’t tell anyone I said that.”
Clara thought back to what she had overheard at Bannon’s party. “Do they get along, Hawks and Bannon? I heard he fought to have her on the film.”
“Barbara Bannon was his discovery—he knew he could make her a star. When he cast her as an unknown nineteen-year-old on Nightshade, it was a risk.
But he understood the chemistry between her and Quinn. Underestimated how much chemistry. I’m sure he was grooming her to be his next conquest. But then Gregory Quinn swooped in and stole her. Silver lining was that Hawks had a hit on his hands with Nightshade. And he sold Bannon’s contract to Silver Pacific, likely for a pretty penny.”
“Do you think Hawks was in love with her?” Clara lowered her voice. “With Barbara Bannon?”
Mr. Brackett gave a lazy shrug. “If he was, he got over it—swallowed any sour grapes. He made two more movies with Quinn and Bannon.”
“What about Randall Ford? Why did he have a feud with Gregory Quinn?” asked Clara, relishing the gossip.
“He lost a role to him; or a girl or a card game.” Brackett gave a small laugh. “Who knows? Once you dislike a man, it no longer matters why.”
The rehearsal was over, and the actors were returning to their chairs.
A production assistant approached. “Mr. Brackett, the assistant director would like a word about some dialogue changes.” Brackett theatrically rolled his eyes and handed his empty glass to the PA as though he were a waiter.
After Mr. Brackett was pulled away by the assistant director, Clara was left hanging.
“Coming through.” A burly man with sandbags under each arm was barreling toward her. She leapt out of his way and accidentally collided with the makeup man, who shot her a withering glance. She stepped away, mortified.
“You want a seat, go ahead.” Clara recognized the voice.
She turned to see Barbara Bannon pointing to the free chair next to her. Clara hesitated, glancing at the name stitched across the canvas back: Mr. Ford. “Don’t worry, it’s someone’s idea of a joke,” said Bannon. “Randall keeps his distance. Go on, sit down. I don’t bite.”
“Thanks.” Clara settled into Randall Ford’s chair, not entirely relaxed—Goldilocks before the bears got home. It wasn’t her place, to be lounging with the talent. In her eyes, actors had their own red wigwag lights that prevented ordinary people from getting too close. Babe Bannon in costume—a pale evening gown—was flicking through her sides, the script pages for the scenes that day. Clara noticed her heavier makeup; she was camera ready.
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