There was a knock on the door, and Lloyd stepped into the cutting room. He handed Clara an interoffice envelope with a knowing look, then slipped away. She flicked a glance at Sam—he was still hunched over the Moviola, tinkering with the scene. All the same, Clara casually swiveled her chair so he couldn’t see what she was looking at. Holding the envelope as if it might self-ignite, she unwound the string and gently teased out the contents: a handful of contact sheets—photos from the Argentan set. Lloyd’s buddy in the publicity department had come through for them. She slid them back into the envelope and silently left the cutting room.
In the detectives’ eyes Clara might not have discovered any concrete evidence that was useful to the case, but in her own unofficial investigation, Clara had a question she intended to answer: Had Connie Milligan and Barbara Bannon been close? Detective Rivetti might have dismissed this, but Clara thought it was important. If Bannon had lied, there must be a reason.
Moments later Clara and Lloyd had ducked into an empty cutting room up the corridor, and they pored over the thumbnail pictures. In lieu of a light box Clara held the contact sheet against the window.
“I brought a loupe,” said Lloyd, and handed her the small glass magnifier.
“Good thinking.” Clara held it over the postage-stamp-size photos.
The contact sheet was a set of photographs from a roll of film, but printed small, and organized in rows. Clara could get an idea of what was happening on set and behind the scenes; as the photographer kept snapping, a sort of photo story emerged. Grease pencil marks crossed out the frames that weren’t usable: someone blinked, someone was out of focus, a hand blocked part of the shot, or the actress had deemed the shot unflattering. These were marked “kills.”
“Hand me the next one,” said Clara.
Lloyd obediently gave her another contact sheet. “What are you looking for?” he asked, trying to keep his voice low.
Clara studied the images. “I’m trying to figure out if Bannon and Connie spent time together on set.”
To Clara’s eye the photographs confirmed what Connie’s mom had implied—the women looked like friends. There were shots of them laughing together, playing cards on an apple box, drinking coffee at the craft table. In another shot, they had switched places. The name stitched on Connie’s canvas chair was “Miss Bannon,” and Bannon sat on Connie’s chair, which fittingly had no name. The women’s faces were turned toward the camera, laughing.
“Were they close?” Clara peered at the faces. “Or was it just playacting for the stills photographer?” She turned to Lloyd. “Did Connie ever mention Babe Bannon? Did you get the impression they got along?”
Lloyd shrugged. “By the time she was working as a stand-in, I didn’t see much of her. Can I have a look?”
“Hang on,” said Clara. There were other photos, without Connie. Some showed Howard Hawks directing the actors, setting up a scene, going over lines. Bannon and Randall Ford stood next to each other looking at Howard, who was gesticulating dramatically. In these pictures, no one was smiling.
Eventually Clara handed the loupe to Lloyd, and they switched places. “What’s the big deal if they were friends or not?” said Lloyd.
“Because it means Bannon lied. She made a point of saying she hardly knew her stand-in.” Clara pondered this for a minute, an idea forming. “Hey, Lloyd, take a look at Connie’s costume. Is it different from Bannon’s? They’re not identical, right?”
Lloyd squinted at the pictures. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. It’s not as fancy.”
“Because it’s the stand-in’s wardrobe.” Her pulse ticked up, and she snatched the loupe from Lloyd.
“Hey,” he said. “I wasn’t finished.”
Clara ignored him and peered at the outfits herself. Bannon’s black dress had been made to measure, no expense spared. The silk bodice was molded to her curves; the delicate sheer layer grazed her collarbones. Connie’s was the right color and a similar cut but had no details and definitely looked like a cheaper fabric.
They heard a noise from the hallway. “We should go,” said Lloyd.
Clara peeled the contact sheet from the window and handed it back to him. They slipped out of the empty office and stood in the corridor.
“The night I found her, Connie wasn’t wearing the stand-in garb,” said Clara, fidgeting with the loupe. “I’m pretty certain she was wearing the real deal.”
“What does that mean?” said Lloyd. “That she borrowed Bannon’s costume?”
Clara nodded slowly. “Yes, but why?” She was about to say something else but stopped herself.
“What?” said Lloyd. “Spit it out.”
Clara bit her lip. “I’m trying to remember.” She cast her mind back to when she’d been waiting at the car wash for her father’s car to be detailed. The magazines and papers in the waiting room had been of the pulp, lurid variety. Of course she’d read them; there had been nothing else to do. Clara shifted her weight. “Okay, hear me out. I read this story in the scandal sheets, about a prostitution ring that was busted by the cops, where the girls were all dressed like movie stars, look-alikes, I guess.” This was awkward. Clara met Lloyd’s eye. “You don’t think—”
Lloyd shook his head firmly. “No way. No way Connie was mixed up in something like that.”
Down the hall, the cutting room door opened and Sam peered into the corridor. “Clara! Mr. Pearce wants to see you.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Spotlight
FOR THE FIRST TIME in her short career at Silver Pacific studios, Clara took the elevator up to the hallowed third floor of the executive building.
Clara didn’t care to meet with the head of the studio. Until last week on stage eleven, he’d been a man she’d known vaguely by sight; by the back of his head in the front row at dailies; by the sound of his voice barking into the intercom in the projection room; and by his reputation, from the stories Lloyd or Miss Simkin had recounted about the man in charge. Conrad Pearce had been born into money; he had purchased the failing Silver Pacific studios for a song in the early 1930s after old Manny Silver had bet big on expensive pictures that had later tanked.
The elevator dinged, and Clara hung back as the doors gaped open. When they started to close again, she darted between them, feeling foolish. So he was the head of the studio. What was there to be nervous about? She hadn’t done anything wrong.
The plush carpeted hallway was cool and quiet, like a hotel corridor. She entered the large outer office, and the stillness of the corridor fell away. There was a buzz of energy, the hum and crackle of a wireless on low, the murmur of voices from behind the closed doors, and somewhere the bleating ring of an unanswered phone. There were two secretaries side by side, separated by a potted plant. In front of them was a waiting area with a love seat and a coffee table scattered with issues of Variety and the Los Angeles Times. The secretary closest to Clara—the more senior of the two—was on the phone. The younger one was typing furiously, her fingers attacking the keys like Otto at the crescendo of a performance.
The closer secretary noticed her. “Hold on,” she said into the phone, and looked at Clara. “Yes, dear?”
“I’m supposed to see Mr. Pearce,” said Clara.
“Your name?”
Clara rolled her shoulders back. “Clara Berg, editorial.”
A beat while the woman scanned her calendar.
“I work on Letter from Argentan,” Clara added.
The light bulb went on. “Right, here you are,” said the secretary, finding a note on her calendar. “Take a seat, please. Mr. Pearce will be free in a minute.” She gestured to the small couch and returned to her phone call.
Clara hesitated. “Do you know what it’s about?”
The secretary interrupted her call a second time. She covered the mouthpiece. “No, I don’t,” she said with less patie
nce. “Have a seat, honey.” Another line buzzed. She pressed a button. “Mr. Pearce’s office. Hold, please.”
Clara sat down as instructed, her hands tightly clasped, pressing into her lap. The ominous closed door of Mr. Pearce’s office conjured a feeling of dread, like being summoned to see the principal. It must be something to do with Connie’s murder—why else would she be requested by the head of the studio?
She eavesdropped on the secretary; her phone didn’t stop ringing.
“Mr. Pearce will be giving an update this afternoon.”
“I’m not in a position to say. Thank you for calling.”
“Yes. Hold, please.”
“He’s in a meeting right now. Care to leave word?”
“It’s New York. Transferring.”
She was brisk, efficient, and handsome—isn’t that how her father would describe an attractive woman his age? She was made up, her lips a neat red cupid’s bow, not gaudy but tasteful, and her hair was set in a smooth wave and pinned at the back. She wore a cream silk blouse and a fine gold chain. Clara noticed she held the phone receiver a fraction away from her, to keep her earring from scraping the receiver. Occasionally, when she was on two calls at once, the younger woman would interrupt her stern typing and answer the phone. It was a fluid ballet of answering questions, deflecting requests, and fending people off. Listening to her made Clara’s little corner of the studio quite insignificant in the grand scheme of moviemaking.
Eventually the door to Mr. Pearce’s office burst open and a knot of suited men strode out, among them Roger Brackett in conversation with a bald man she recognized as the head of the story department. Trailing the group—his face buried in a notebook—was Gil.
Clara’s throat seemed to squeeze shut. “Gil,” she said, a little raspy. He looked up, and his expression loosened. He tucked the notebook into his suit jacket; then, as if he remembered their fight, he hesitated. Clara got to her feet. Gil approached her slowly and they stood like opponents sizing each other up.
The group of men congregated in the hallway talking over each other. Gil jerked his head in the direction of Mr. Pearce’s office. “You got a meeting with the big cheese?”
Clara gave an exaggerated shrug. “Not sure why.” She eyed him, a little wary. “It could be about the case.” She pursed her lips, regretting bringing it up.
“He’ll ask you how you’re holding up and remind you the studio is a great place to work. Don’t worry about it; you’re low priority.” He gave a forced smile. Clara noticed his tie wasn’t centered and she wanted to reach out and straighten it. She kept her arms clamped by her sides.
“What about you? What did Mr. Pearce want?”
“Script meeting. Can we rewrite the attempted murder scene?” He rubbed a hand over his chin—she noticed he was clean-shaven. “We’ll have to reshoot the whole thing. This movie is never going to end.”
The studio small talk was stilted and painful. Clara couldn’t bear the tension any longer. She took a step closer. “Look, Gil, about last night—”
“Skip it,” he said sharply.
“Mr. Gilbert.” It was Brackett’s mellifluous voice bellowing from the hallway. “Care to join us?”
“Be right there,” Gil called over his shoulder and then turned back to Clara. “We should talk.” He lowered his voice. “Not here. Away from the studio. I’ll pick you up after work.” He gave her a meaningful look.
“Sure,” said Clara, matching his serious tone.
A buzz sounded on the secretary’s desk. “You can go in now, Miss Berg.”
“Good luck,” said Gil.
* * *
—
Mr. Pearce was sitting behind a vast white desk, with the phone receiver (also white) clamped to his ear. He gestured for Clara to come in and pointed to the guest chairs.
The office was huge. Besides the desk there were couches, a bookcase, and a bar. Every surface in the office was white or chrome and reflected the light. Immaculate. It was the opposite of the utilitarian cutting rooms or film archive; it was more like a hotel suite or a Park Avenue apartment. Clara had the impression that she had stepped onto a film set, one of those fast-talking romantic comedies from the thirties with witty banter, no stopping for breath. She half expected Katharine Hepburn and Cary Grant to be lounging on one of the white couches. Martini or gimlet?
Clara sat down and surveyed his desk. Two telephones, a neat stack of screenplays, and framed photos of girls on ponies and young men on boats.
“Forgive me.” Pearce hung up the phone. “One of those days.” He leaned back in his chair and contemplated her from across the vast white ocean of desk. Conrad Pearce was as immaculate and cold as his office. “This murder business…” He frowned. “Damn awful thing. How are you coping?” Gil had called it as if he’d written the script himself.
Clara fought a smile, imagining relating the anecdote to Gil after work. “I’m doing okay, thanks.”
“It’s a terrible business. A nice girl like you.” He gave a grave shake of his head. Clara felt she should point out that nothing awful had happened to her. She had merely seen something horrible. He leaned toward her. “I don’t mind saying it, but I’d rather it had been one of the vault boys who had come across it.” “It” being Connie’s body. “Even Miss Simkin—she’s as tough as old boots, am I right?” He gave her a well-practiced smile void of any feeling. “But a nice girl like you.” Again that rueful shake of the head.
Clara squirmed in her seat at the patronizing tone. Across the courtyard the sun reflected off an open window and dazzled into the office, blinding her like a follow spot, forcing her to lean to the side at an awkward angle.
“Well, Miss Berg, we got you out of the vaults. You happy working with Sam?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. “Daft that we ever hired a girl in the first place to be a vault boy. What did they have you do, lug cans of film all day?”
Clara nodded. “That’s the job. I did it as well as the boys.”
“I’m sure,” he said insincerely. “Now, I wanted to run something by you. Our publicity fellow came up with the idea of doing a piece for the studio paper, the spotlight column—‘Women Behind the Scenes.’ We’re keen to shift the recent bad press and show that Silver Pacific is a wonderful place for a young woman to work—a morale booster, so to speak. It’s going to be a series, and we’d like to start with you.”
“Me?” Clara shifted in her seat. “What do you need me to do?”
“Just your job. We’ll send a photographer to the cutting room, snap a few pictures of you holding up film footage or behind the Moviola or what have you. Then we’ll put a little write-up in the paper. Now, what do you say?”
Thankfully the phone rang and Clara didn’t have to answer right away. He held a finger in the air and picked up. “Yes. Put him through.” He swiveled his chair away from her. “Detective.” Clara’s ears pricked up and she held her breath, intent on eavesdropping.
Mr. Pearce listened for a few moments.
Clara scanned the collection of framed photographs. Aside from his children enjoying upper-class pursuits there was one of an older couple in their sixties—his parents, presumably—in evening dress. They were impeccably dressed and looked the part, probably because he’d found them at central casting, just like his secretaries. Her gaze landed on the pile of screenplays and she remembered the phone number on Connie’s script and how she should have asked Mrs. Milligan about it.
“What did you say?” Pearce snapped at the detective and Clara tuned back into the conversation wishing she could hear both sides. “They couldn’t have come through the mailroom,” he went on. “We screen all the fan letters.” Silence from Mr. Pearce as he listened. Eventually he swiveled his chair back around. “We’ll up her security on set and outside her dressing room. Thanks, Detective.” Clara didn’t need to hear both sides to know who
they were discussing: Babe Bannon, of course.
After Mr. Pearce had hung up the phone, he stared at it for a beat, frustrated. Then he resumed his professional guise. “What do you say, Miss Berg?” He was back to business. “Women behind the scenes. Are you game?”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Max
AFTER CLARA LEFT MR. Pearce’s office, on a whim she took the elevator all the way down to the basement level. It would only take a minute, and she wanted to ask Max about Fräulein Riefenstahl. The projection booth was empty. Clara surveyed Max’s world like she would a still life: his spare glasses, yesterday’s crusted coffee cup, a well-thumbed extension list taped to the wall, annotated with his scratchy handwriting. The LA Times lay open at an article on the Nuremberg trials—the prosecution of Nazi war criminals was on everyone’s mind in their refugee world. She looked at the clock; it was already noon. Max was probably at lunch. She could try and chase him down at the commissary—but she’d rather talk to him alone. Perhaps she should drop by Mrs. Milligan’s instead, and ask about the phone number on Connie’s script. Even though the police investigation was intensifying on Babe Bannon, Clara couldn’t let the Connie angle go.
“Klara.” She jumped at her own name and turned to see Max with a box of cleaning supplies.
* * *
—
Clara followed Max upstairs to the lobby, where they stood in front of the awards cabinet. Once a week it was his task to dust the Oscars in the display case. (Apparently Mr. Pearce didn’t trust the cleaners to do it.) Max unlocked the cabinet and opened the glass door wide. He picked up the first statue, and Clara handed him the duster, like a nurse handing an instrument to a surgeon. She watched as he swept the duster tenderly over the golden man. Her eyes grew wide and covetous, and she couldn’t resist. “Can I hold it?”
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