The Silver Blonde

by Elizabeth Ross

  Ireland paced back and forth in front of her, and Rivetti leaned against the Chrysler, glaring at her like a suspect.

  “This is not a license to concoct any stories,” said Detective Ireland. “Definitely don’t cop to her that you found the body. You worked with Connie—that’s all. We’re looking for a bit more background on the victim. Keep your ears open for anyone the mother might mention: a friend, boyfriend, neighbor, a beef with a work colleague—any kind of grudge or disagreement. That’s it. Listen to the mother and report back.”

  “Sure.” Clara nodded and took the sad brown grocery bag. Her heart thumped, a thread of intrigue tugging at her.

  “I still don’t like it,” said Rivetti. “She’ll be in over her head.”

  Clara eyed him, clutching the bag.

  “She’s smart, not pushy,” said Ireland, gesturing to Clara. “She looks well brought up. That girl’s mother will give her a lemonade, and I bet she’ll have something to say.”

  Rivetti ran his tongue over his teeth. “You think so?”

  “The mother isn’t going to spill her guts to us,” Ireland went on. “The girl can’t do any harm. It’s worth a shot.”

  “I can do it.” Clara held Rivetti’s gaze, defiant.

  He looked away first. “Knock yourself out.”

  Ireland opened the back door of the Chrysler, and Clara got in. Then the detectives got into the front. As they swept toward the main gates, they passed the Writers’ Block. On cue there was Gil walking toward the building with Roger Brackett. They had to step aside to let the detectives’ huge car pass, and Clara watched Gil’s face cloud over when he saw her in the backseat.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Gramercy Place

  THE COPS DROPPED CLARA off in front of a tatty apartment building on Gramercy Place, south of Beverly. A zigzagging fire escape slashed down the stucco, and in the strip of yard, dusty rosebushes cried out for a drink. Up the street, a few girls were playing jump rope. They called out a chant, and two girls, braids flying, expertly ducked under the rope. As Clara approached the front door, she felt the swoop and thwack of the jump rope beat in her own chest.

  Clara entered Connie’s building inconspicuously, as if she lived there. Behind her the main door closed with a bang; the world outside was reduced to rectangles of white through the frosted glass. Her eyes adjusted to the feeble light. The hallway was coated in the smell of fried onions and old carpet—her stomach twisted. In someone’s apartment a phone was ringing and a door slammed; a small dog was yapping, and she could hear children’s laughter punctuated by quick footsteps. The building hummed on a different frequency from the drone of traffic on the street. She inhaled a long breath of stale air and set off down the hall.

  There were two sets of stairs, one at either end of the long narrow building, and as Clara moved past apartment 1A, then 1B, the noises shifted around her, impossible to pinpoint. A shriek made her spin around suddenly, but it was followed by a fainter echo, from a higher floor. She continued undeterred. She refused to be thrown by the unfamiliar building and its knack for trickery.

  She replayed Detective Ireland’s instructions: Get invited in, get Mrs. Milligan talking. It seemed simple enough. She felt alert and clear-eyed. If she was honest about the butterflies, it wasn’t nerves. It was anticipation. She was hungry for knowledge and confident she could find out something from Connie’s mother.

  She shifted the brown grocery bag to her other hand. Of course, the moment the detectives had driven away, she had peeked inside, and found a cream sweater, pilled under the arms; a garnet-red lipstick, nearly finished; a blunt kohl pencil; two pay stubs; and a packet of gum. The sum of Connie’s belongings.

  Apartment 1C was at the far end of the first floor. She rang the bell and waited, gripping the bag tightly, her hands crushing the paper. From inside she heard a clatter of dishes and a child’s whining—that threw her. Had she gotten the wrong apartment?

  Finally the door opened to reveal a middle-aged woman—fine lines on her freckled face, hair hastily clipped back—wiping her hands on an apron. A drumroll of quick footfalls, and a little girl, about three years old, thrust herself past the woman and scrutinized Clara for a moment. Cheeks flushed, she held up a cookie, shrieked an utterance, and thudded away again.

  “Mrs. Milligan? I’m Clara. I work at the studio.” Her voice was more halting than she had practiced. The woman studied her for a cold moment, and Clara responded with a confused smile. “I’m sorry. I must have the wrong address.”

  “What do you people want now?” said the woman, her face set, her lips a thin line. “I don’t have time for this.” She went to close the door.

  “I brought you Connie’s things,” said Clara quickly. Grateful for the bag, she held it up like an offering.

  The woman stopped short, a shadow of suspicion behind her eyes.

  Clara continued softly, “May I come in?” She watched the woman weaken and steel herself at once.

  “Just for a minute.” Mrs. Milligan took the bag from Clara. “But I have to get the little one an early supper.” She disappeared into the apartment, leaving the door open for Clara to follow.

  * * *

  —

  Clara sat on a lumpy couch in the living room, one half of it draped with linen waiting to be ironed. Wooden blocks and toy cars lay scattered across the hardwood floor; the little girl was lining up an army of dolls and stuffed animals on the rug.

  “Excuse the mess. She’s a hurricane, this one.” Connie’s mother gave a weak smile. She would have been pretty once, but she looked dog-tired.

  Clara nodded vaguely, still wondering who the little girl belonged to.

  “I’ll get you an iced tea,” said Mrs. Milligan. She was cradling the bag Clara had given her.

  “That would be great.” The apartment was stuffy and sour with the reek of damp laundry and turned milk. Clara’s eyes wandered to the mantelpiece and the collection of family photographs. Hungrily, she scanned them, homing in on a wedding photo: Connie and a young man in air force dress. He was terrifically handsome, with a dimpled chin and an excellent smile. The cops hadn’t mentioned that Connie had been married. Next to the wedding photo there was a framed certificate from Miss Webster’s typing school, awarding C. Milligan “distinction.”

  Mrs. Milligan took a shabby armchair near the little girl, no attempt to fetch the iced tea, as though the offer of refreshment had already been forgotten. She placed the bag of Connie’s belongings carefully on a side table, and Clara understood that she wasn’t going to open it in her presence.

  Clara tucked her hair behind her ear, rehearsing avenues of conversation in her head, assessing the best approach. A fan blew a stale breeze across the room in a sweeping arc. It did little to refresh. It just managed to ruffle the little girl’s curls with each pass.

  “What’s her name?” Clara asked. Mrs. Milligan stiffened, and Clara realized she had somehow blundered.

  “Mae,” she said with a snap in her voice. The little girl looked up for a moment at the sound of her name. Mrs. Milligan folded her arms. “Connie didn’t tell you about her?”

  She was Connie’s daughter. “No,” said Clara, simply. She had learned from her years in high school—when her German background had proved a liability—not to elaborate unnecessarily. Clara calmly waited for Mrs. Milligan to go on.

  “It figures,” she said, in a softer tone. “Connie didn’t like to tell movie people about the little one.” Her eyes rested on Mae. She shook her head. “Said it didn’t fit with her image. She even went back to using her maiden name. Jim’s name was Polish—Connie said it didn’t sound right for an actress.”

  “Is that Jim?” asked Clara, nodding to the photo on the mantel. “He’s very handsome.”

  “He was good-looking, right enough. Killed in Normandy—the D-Day landings.”

  “I�
�m sorry.” Clara shifted her position on the couch. Something sharp was poking into her thigh. She retrieved a doll from under the cushion. “Mae, is this yours?” Clara asked.

  Responding to the upbeat tone, the girl perked up, snatched the doll from Clara, and added it to her brood of stuffed animals on the rug.

  “You worked on the movie with Connie?” Mrs. Milligan said.

  “Yes,” said Clara brightly. “She did pretty well, going from extra to stand-in so quickly.” Clara was pushing a little, hoping Mrs. Milligan would offer something.

  Mrs. Milligan shrugged. “She had the look, I expect, of that Bannon woman. Not to mention sheer will.” She exhaled a sigh. “I thought secretary work was a decent paycheck.” She shook her head. “Connie was adamant we leave San Bernardino. So off we went—a few months after Jim was killed—the three of us to Los Angeles.”

  Clara glanced up at the wedding photo on the mantel, trying to form a picture. Connie Milligan: small-town secretary, newly widowed with Hollywood dreams.

  “Did she always want to work in movies?” Clara asked.

  “I suppose so. She always loved the pictures.” Connie’s mom nodded to the little girl. “Why do you think she named her after Mae West? She was always enamored with movie people—ever since she worked as a secretary in Palm Springs, rubbing shoulders with Hollywood types. They ‘winter’ in the desert, apparently.” Her face hardened. “She should have stuck to typing.” The words stung.

  God, it was warm in the apartment. They sat watching the little girl as if she were the sole reason for Clara’s visit.

  “I’ve called her Connie more than once,” said Mrs. Milligan.

  Clara forced herself to say something. “It’s awful—I can’t imagine.” The words were thin and meaningless. She had no business trespassing on the Milligans’ grief. The ripples of Connie’s murder were tidal waves to the people left behind. “Mrs. Milligan, I should probably leave—you have your hands full. Thank you for taking the time.” Clara went to get up.

  But it was as though Mrs. Milligan hadn’t heard. “Apartment living,” she said, and continued to stare at her charge. “The little one needs space to roam. In San Bernardino, when Connie was little, we had a yard, and a park down the block….” She trailed off. The fan swept the air across them. Neither of them spoke.

  Clara studied Mrs. Milligan. She looked exhausted, the joy of this child smothered by the loss of her own. Her wide, freckled brow, no makeup; her roots were needing done, and her wave was limp. What was she thinking? That if they hadn’t left San Bernardino, Connie would still be alive?

  From the hallway there were raised voices, a baby screaming, and a door slam. It set Clara on edge. Her eyes returned to the photographs. Connie Milligan: pretty enough to be a stand-in but not a star. Done up to look like someone else, she had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Had she just been unlucky?

  “Why are you here?” Mrs. Milligan’s gaze landed on Clara like the beam of a searchlight. “You going to dish the dirt for one of those gossip rags?” Her voice had a rough edge to it. “They’ve been pestering me for days.”

  Clara’s heartbeat pounded from her throat to her diaphragm. Connie’s mother had seen through her.

  Mrs. Milligan narrowed her eyes. “ ‘The Silver Blonde.’ ” She turned away, disgusted. “She had a name.”

  Clara clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking. “I work at the studio, on the same movie as Connie, but I’m sorry, I didn’t know your daughter very well.” Her throat felt as dry as sand. “I didn’t mean to give you that impression.” She swallowed hard. She felt like some kind of swindler, wanting to nose around the victim’s home, playing detective, assuming Mrs. Milligan would somehow open up to her, where Ireland and Rivetti had failed. “Mrs. Milligan, I would never go to the papers.”

  The older woman studied Clara for a moment, and her shoulders dropped. Clara’s face must have convinced her of something. She dusted some lint from her apron. “Would you like to see her room?”

  * * *

  —

  Connie’s bedroom was neat and fresh, and full of life. It looked more like it belonged to a teenager, not a widow or a mother. There was a vanity littered with makeup and perfume bottles, an open closet stuffed with shoeboxes and cocktail dresses. The walls were papered with images of her idols torn from the pages of Photoplay or Modern Screen. Clara recognized the shiny dreams, the hungry pursuit; it was the same desire for a piece of Hollywood that Clara felt.

  Mrs. Milligan sat on the edge of the bed, a hand absently smoothing the flowered bedspread. There were framed photographs on the night table: Mae as a baby in Connie’s arms, and a candid of Jim and Connie on the beach. There was an openness to her face, a softness. She’d probably had one of those easy, infectious laughs. In the biggest photo frame there was a professional shot of Connie—the same one the newspaper had printed. It pulsed like a beacon, and Clara reached for it.

  “May I?”

  Mrs. Milligan nodded.

  Clara held the cold metal frame and stared at Connie’s picture. The original color photo was much clearer than the one in newsprint. It was a high-angle shot. She was wearing an off-the-shoulder dress, her head turned up to the camera as if someone had just called her name. Clara took a seat on the bed next to Mrs. Milligan. “She’s pretty,” said Clara.

  Mrs. Milligan nodded. “She turned heads, all right. Two years since Jim passed, but she wasn’t interested in dating. He was her big love. ‘Lightning doesn’t strike twice,’ she would say.” Connie’s mom tutted. “Always thought she had an advantage with her looks.” There was a brittle edge to her voice. “Instead, that’s what got her killed.”

  “Is that what the police said?” Clara turned to Mrs. Milligan. “Because she looked like Babe Bannon?”

  “I don’t know.” She shook her head like it hurt. “Connie didn’t have enemies. She got along with people; she wasn’t in with a bad crowd. Her life was just her job, and me and Mae.” Mrs. Milligan peered over Clara’s shoulder at the framed picture. “I always liked her natural color, dark blond with highlights from the sun.” Her voice cracked a little. She turned to Clara. “Much like yours.” Mrs. Milligan’s eyes were glassy, her high round forehead crinkled. “I suppose the hairdresser did a nice job on the new color.” She chuckled. “But you wouldn’t have thought so. The day Connie came back from the salon, she was in a foul mood—I mean she hardly remarked on her hair. Normally she’d be preening at herself in every reflective surface, wanting to take her new hairdo out for a spin.” Mrs. Milligan caught herself on the sunny memories. “But she wasn’t herself at all that day.”

  This confirmed what Rosa the hairdresser had told Clara. “Did you find out what was bothering her?”

  Mrs. Milligan frowned. “No, she wouldn’t say. It was around the anniversary of V-E Day. I don’t think it was anything to do with a hairdo. She would have been thinking about Jim.”

  “Did you mention any of this to the detectives?”

  Mrs. Milligan made a face. “Those two nitwits? Yes, I told them she was out of sorts, but they kept asking me if Connie was dating someone, as though anything that happened to her didn’t make sense without a man in the picture.” She rolled her eyes. “That Rivetti is about as perceptive as a brick. I’m sure he thinks all women are moody and hysterical.”

  “Was she out of sorts for a while?” asked Clara, trying for concern, not curiosity.

  “A few days, I think. Eventually she came around—she went out a couple of times with Miss Bannon, which cheered her up. They even went dancing.”

  Connie and Babe Bannon out on the town? This didn’t sound right.

  Mrs. Milligan sighed. “They got on well. I expect they spent a bit of time together on the film set.”

  Clara forced a smile. “Yes, of course.” She recalled Bannon by the pool, swirling her dr
ink around, shrugging and saying that she’d hardly known Connie. Bannon was lying, but why?

  There was a sudden crash from the living room and a beat of quiet before a sharp cry rang out. It soon escalated to a wail. Connie’s mom sprang off the bed and dashed off. “Mae, what’s happened? Nana’s coming.” Clara put the photo frame back on the night table and cast her gaze around the room. Everything about it was rooted in the present. It was a strange feeling, as though Connie had just stepped out to get something from the kitchen, and any second Clara would hear the click of her heels on the hardwood floor.

  As Clara crossed the room to leave, the open window caught the lift of a breeze. It wafted through the curtains and hit her with the sweetness of a meadow. Clara stopped and inhaled. She was standing in front of the vanity, and her eyes ran over the makeup and perfume bottles, the curling iron and hair rollers. There was a little dish with matchbooks from Hollywood hotspots. Clara recognized the names from the gossip columns: Romanoffs, the Cocoanut Grove, the Mocambo. Were they mementoes, like Clara’s cigar box of keepsakes?

  Connie had collected magazines too. On the floor next to the vanity, piles of them were stacked by publication: Vogue, Harper’s Bazaar, Photoplay, Variety. There was an odd one out: on top of the stack of Vogue magazines was a copy of the Saturday Evening Post. It looked out of place—a news magazine among all the fashion and Hollywood gossip. The cover was a Norman Rockwell–style illustration of two little boys staring at airplanes. Clara picked it up. The date was March 30 of this year, and the address on the label wasn’t Gramercy Place—it was for a beauty salon on Beverly Boulevard. Her heart thumped. It was where Connie had gotten her hair done—she must have taken the magazine from Rosa’s salon. Curious, Clara began to flip through the pages.

  There was an article about wounded vets, titled “We Will Walk.” She scanned it quickly. Today’s veterans are taking a new lease on life and learning to be independent. There were photographs of men in hospital beds, with crutches, another of a man in a wheelchair. Clara studied the faces in the photographs. Staff Sgt. Howard Ogden learns to walk on inert legs, aided by handrails and a leather brace. Pfc. Louis Tepper works out at volleyball with a physical instructor. With the help of a physiotherapist, Lt. Harold Ritchey performs some basic exercises.