Max raised an eyebrow. “Sure, just for a moment.” Clara held out her hands to accept the award as though her name had just been announced at the Biltmore ballroom. She couldn’t suppress a smile. The statue had that effect. She held it tightly; it was weighty and cool. A Call to Arms had won the Best Picture award during the war.
“I spoke to your mother last night,” said Max. “She called to see if I wanted the set of standing lamps in your living room.” He continued to dust the other statues. “She’s worried about you.” He gave Clara a meaningful look over the rim of his glasses.
Clara sighed, annoyed. “She worries about everything.”
“She blames me, you know—for getting you the job at the studio—encouraging you with this film editing nonsense.”
“You think it’s nonsense?”
He gave her a knowing smile and shook his head.
“Max, it wouldn’t hurt for you to take my side,” said Clara. “You could talk to them.”
Max reclaimed the Oscar and returned it to its position on the prop film canister—then gave it a last wipe to remove their fingerprints. “She doesn’t want to lose you, Klara,” he said soberly.
“I can’t live with them forever.” Clara pushed aside her feelings of guilt and frustration. Right now she had to focus on getting information from Max. Leni Riefenstahl’s visit to Los Angeles was eating away at her. She watched him wipe the duster over a statue won in the early days.
“You worked at the studio in the thirties, right?”
He nodded. “I’ve been here since 1932,” he said proudly. “Manny Silver brought over a lot of European talent in those days.” She had heard the story of Max’s glory days as a silent-film director many times. When he’d made a costly three-hour biblical epic that Mr. Silver and all the critics had hated, he’d fallen out of favor as a director. “What do you want to know?”
Clara ran her fingers over the red velvet cloth in the display case. “Leni Riefenstahl visited Los Angeles in ’38. Do you remember?”
Max frowned. “She came to sell her movie of the Olympics—her timing couldn’t have been worse. Days after Kristallnacht, and she refused to believe it. ‘Germany would never do such a thing,’ she said. She was what you call ‘a piece of work.’ Is that the expression?” He gave a long shake of the head. “No one wanted her around. The Hollywood Anti-Nazi League made it impossible for her. ‘No room in Hollywood for Leni Riefenstahl.’ That’s what our flyers said, and full-page ads in Variety. And that funny man on the radio Mr. Winchell said, ‘Leni is as pretty as a swastika.’ ” He chuckled and repeated it to himself.
“No one would meet her?”
Max reflected. “Mr. Disney was a fan—he gave her a tour of his studio. He wanted to screen her Olympic movie, but he panicked—worried the projectionists would go on strike. Our campaign worked.” He gave a decisive nod. “In the end he chickened out.”
“Did Riefenstahl visit Silver Pacific?” asked Clara.
“No.” Max shook his head, but something shifted in his demeanor.
“You never met her, then?” asked Clara.
Max chucked the duster into his bucket. She could see a flash of something behind his eyes. His face tightened. “It was a long time ago.”
Somewhere down a corridor a door slammed. His gaze was far away, a distant look, as though recollecting something from the past, then closing a door on it.
“Max?”
“Klara, I really don’t remember.” He closed the awards cabinet and turned the key to lock it.
He leaned close to her, his expression serious, unblinking. “Be careful, Klara. Don’t go poking around in things that don’t concern you. The past is the past.” He glanced at the clock in the lobby. “Sam will be looking for you.” His tone had shifted gears back to normal. “I’ll talk to your mother, but I can’t promise it will help.” He gave her a fatherly smile, picked up his bucket of cleaning supplies, and walked away, leaving her in front of the gleaming army of gold statues.
Her eyes followed him as he crossed the lobby and disappeared downstairs.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The Girl
CLARA UNPACKED THE GROCERIES and handed them to Mrs. Milligan to put away. With each item the woman thanked her profusely. “You have to let me give you something for this—I insist.”
Clara handed her a bunch of grapes and a tin of coffee. “No need, Mrs. Milligan. Really, it’s no trouble.”
It was well after one p.m., and she had already been away from the office too long. Still she accepted the offer of a glass of lemonade. Mae was at a neighbor’s, and Mrs. Milligan seemed glad of adult company. The two women sat at the small kitchen table. Laundry hung on the pulley overhead, the pipes gurgled from the apartment upstairs, and a breeze wafted in through the open window now and again.
Clara felt the tightness in her chest that precedes asking an impertinent question, but she sensed that with Connie’s mother a direct approach was best. “Mrs. Milligan, I wanted to ask you.” Clara pulled the script cover page from her purse and unfolded it. “Is this Connie’s handwriting?” She handed over the piece of paper.
The woman took it and studied it. “I think so. The ink’s blurred, but I would say yes. Why?”
“Do you recognize the phone number? It might be SPRING three-one-nine-one. Perhaps you overheard Connie asking the operator. Does it sound familiar?”
Mrs. Milligan glanced at it again, her forehead wrinkled in thought. “I can’t say that it does. Did the police give you this?”
Clara shook her head. “No, I just came across it and I wondered. I can pass it along to them. It’s probably nothing.” Dammit, she thought; another dead end with this number. Clara sipped her lemonade and tried to think of her other unanswered questions. “You mentioned that Connie had a brush with Hollywood years ago and she was bitten by the film bug. When was that?”
Mrs. Milligan topped up their lemonade from the jug. “Oh, it was nothing really. She spent a few months in Palm Springs working as a secretary. Let’s see…she met Jim in the summer of ’39. Palm Springs would have been the fall of 1938 through the New Year.”
“Did she work for someone famous? You mentioned Hollywood,” said Clara, trying to tease out the information.
“Dear me, no. It was just temp jobs, filling in for a secretary out sick or on vacation. She was seventeen, just out of typing school and she was trying to gain experience. The town itself attracts Hollywood types. But no, Connie’s jobs weren’t glamorous. I think she worked at a Realtor’s office, and a car company, I believe.”
“It was just for a few months?”
Mrs. Milligan nodded. “Connie wanted the excitement of living somewhere else, but she couldn’t justify staying because she was barely making enough to live. It’s an expensive place. I missed her something awful when she was away.” She caught herself on the words, maybe realizing that now she would be missing her daughter always. Clara looked down at her glass, annoyed at herself for pushing all these questions.
But Mrs. Milligan continued. “She didn’t even come back for Christmas. I mean, she was supposed to, she’d booked her bus ticket, but the day before she was supposed to leave, she called me all in a lather. She’d been offered another temp job. Some rich fellow needed ‘a girl’ to help with housekeeping and correspondence over the holidays. She didn’t want to disappoint me—it was Christmas, after all—but this job would pay her time and a half, it being over the holidays.”
Clara’s ears pricked up. “Sounds generous.” Who could she have worked for?
“Of course I wondered if it was respectable—working out of someone’s home—but Connie had spoken with the housekeeper, and she wouldn’t be working there alone. I felt reassured hearing that.”
“Was it anyone famous? Do you remember the man’s name?”
“Oh, now you’re t
esting me. No idea. I don’t think so. I’d never heard of him, anyway.” Mrs. Milligan smiled faintly. “Connie was nothing short of ecstatic—apparently the house had its own swimming pool.” She shook her head at the memory. “Connie assumed it would be some kind of fairy-tale mansion, but she sent me a postcard of it—one of those modern ‘architectural’ houses, all rectangles and glass walls.” Mrs. Milligan gave a chuckle. “She said it was plain ugly.”
* * *
—
Clara arrived back at the studio late from her lunch break. Her mind was turning over everything Mrs. Milligan had said. The Palm Springs connection felt very distant and unlikely. It was a long time ago.
Sam pointed at the clock when Clara walked into the cutting room: 1:55 p.m. “I was going to send out a search party,” he said. “Where were you?”
Clara put her purse in the drawer and shrugged off her jacket. “Sorry, Sam. I was visiting Connie Milligan’s mother.” She assumed the name would immediately fend off any further questions, but Sam was still looking at her, unamused.
“Clara, I understand the past couple of weeks have been very disruptive, given everything that’s happened.” He avoided saying the words “murder” or “Connie.” “But that isn’t your business. It’s up to the police to do their job. You’re forever running off and not being where I need you.” He was working himself up a little. “And do you really think you should be pestering this poor woman?”
Clara blinked quickly; she couldn’t meet his eye. Sam had never lost his temper with her before.
“The answer is no.” She heard the thunk of the splicer as Sam got back to work. “Let’s focus on our own jobs, all right?” His tone had thawed slightly. “Your head hasn’t been at work since this happened. If you want less responsibility, I’m sure Miss Simkin would take you back in the archive as a runner.”
No. Clara’s cheeks colored at the prospect of such humiliation. She slumped down at her desk, the idea of a demotion knocking the wind out of her. “Look, Sam.” She turned to him. “I’ll work late tonight—I’ll make up the time. It won’t happen again.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Griffith Observatory
AS PROMISED CLARA PUT in an extra hour at the end of the day. Gil picked her up after seven, and they drove east through Hollywood toward Los Feliz, in the direction of Griffith Park. The evening air was cool and sweet. After the heat of the day it felt like the city was able to breathe again.
Gil was quiet. The traffic was bad and he was concentrating on the road. Clara squirmed in her seat, itching with questions. After a few blocks, she blurted out, “So? What did you want to say? Is it about the murder?”
He flicked a glance in the side mirror, then changed lanes to avoid a stalled bus. “Two things,” he said. “First thing, I ran into the studio fixer.”
“The fixer?”
“Works under the auspices of security. Deals with the messy affairs of contract stars. He keeps scandals out of the press, facilitates a quick divorce or pays off a disgruntled ex—that kinda thing.” A cab cut in front of them. Gil leaned on the horn. “The studio has a file on stalkers and nuisance fans, as well as the rundown on any inconvenient dalliances or ex-spouses.” They slowed for a traffic light while the cab in front ran the red.
“I didn’t know any of that.” Clara wondered for a moment if Gil’s name was in a file somewhere on the lot.
“Well, I ran into the guy—he’s ex-army—at the studio barber. We were both having a shave. He tells me someone has been sending things to Babe Bannon—‘little love notes,’ he called them.”
“Fan mail?” asked Clara.
Gil shook his head. “Anonymous threats—several of them over the last few weeks. Not mailed. But dropped off by hand—on set, in her dressing room, even in her car.” The engine rumbled as they waited for the light at Western to change.
Clara’s mind raced back to that morning in Pearce’s office. “I overheard Mr. Pearce on the phone with one of the detectives. He mentioned something about the mailroom and fan letters—and about upping Bannon’s security in the same conversation.”
“I guess they’re not taking any chances,” Gil said grimly.
The light turned green, he stepped on the gas, and the car roared to life. They turned left up Vermont and passed huge homes hidden behind lush magnolias and thick walls of cypress. In Griffith Park the road kept climbing and twisting toward the observatory. Nature was always close by in Los Angeles. It threatened to take over: bougainvillea rambling over buildings, warping fence posts; ficus roots cracking asphalt; avocado trees littering sidewalks with overripe fruit. The perfect weather—it emboldened nature, made it reckless, disrespectful of the man-made world.
The sunset was already fading as they pulled into the parking lot. They got out of the car and saw a cluster of people at the main entrance. Clara knew that Gil wouldn’t want to go inside when it was busy. Instead they veered right, to the west terrace, and looked at the view: Griffith Park, a surprising wilderness, a sleeping giant in the middle of the city—an escape from the concrete, the automobiles, the noise, the striving.
“Wait, what’s the second thing—you mentioned two things,” said Clara.
Gil shrugged. “It’s probably nothing. You first—any breaks in the case with Connie?”
Clara shook her head. “What case? I have nothing but questions—some observations and discrepancies. It’s like trying to cut together footage from two different movies. Nothing adds up.”
They followed the walkway that skirted the outside of the planetarium and stopped to lean on the white parapet. It was still warm. Dusk had settled over the park.
“What have you got?” said Gil. “Just tell me one thing—one movie.”
Clara thought about it for a while. “Okay. With everyone I’ve talked to there’s a consensus that something was off with Connie in the weeks before her death, but everyone has a different take on it.”
“What are they saying?”
Clara described the different reactions from Lloyd, Bannon, Mrs. Milligan, and even Rosa the hairdresser.
“You have to remember,” said Gil, “when other people talk about Connie, they’re telling you about themselves.”
“What do you mean?”
“I learned this in screenwriting. It’s not what people say that’s important. It’s what they’re telling you, the subtext. For example, the hairdresser assumes Connie doesn’t like the new hair color, because that’s the hairdresser’s job, to make the customer happy. And if the customer’s not happy, then the hairdresser assumes it’s her fault.”
“What about Connie’s mother?”
“That’s easy. She assumes Connie is missing her husband because family is important to her. She’s worried about her daughter, adrift in a new city.”
Clara nodded. “I guess Lloyd was feeling left behind because Connie had moved on, and maybe she’d just used him to get onto the lot. He blames the movie she’s working on, when the truth is, maybe she just never liked him that much.”
“And the movie star doesn’t think too much about anyone except herself,” said Gil. “My point is, only Connie knew what she was feeling; everyone else is projecting their own ideas.”
A sightseeing couple got into their space, so they moved on to the east terrace, where it was darker, where night had taken hold of the city. A crescent moon pierced through the shaggy fringes of eucalyptus. And in the distance, far below, a string of taillights lined Vermont Avenue.
“Wait, you’re wrong about one thing,” said Clara. “About Bannon. She was friends with Connie, I’m pretty sure. There’s plenty of photos of them palling around on set, and the two of them went out dancing, according to Mrs. Milligan. But Bannon claims she hardly knew Connie.”
“Why would she say that?” said Gil.
“Exactly. I don’t know. Is she really ju
st an uncaring diva?”
Gil shrugged and let her question hang in the air.
“What if the Connie motive is all wrong and we’re asking questions about the wrong person? You talked to the fixer today—those anonymous threats. The cops seem convinced. What if Bannon was the intended victim?”
Gil turned sharply. “You really believe that?” he said. “That the killer got Connie by mistake?”
“No, I don’t,” said Clara firmly.
“Neither do I.” He leaned against the parapet. “You know why I don’t believe it? Because Connie is dead, not Barbara Bannon.” He didn’t often say her full name, Clara noticed. “I don’t buy the look-alike theory for a second—it’s all smoke and mirrors.”
As he spoke an idea came to Clara like a key gliding smoothly into a lock. She clutched his arm in excitement. “Babe Bannon is a distraction—a deliberate distraction—like Sam’s trick for cutting with a mismatch.”
“What?” said Gil, not following.
Suddenly aware that she had grabbed him, Clara released his arm. She explained the editing trick that Sam had shown her earlier in the day. “Everyone’s eyes are on Bannon. It’s a cheat, a trick, and it has worked beautifully. Everyone has fallen for it: the cops, the press, the studio, even Babe herself—she acts tough but she’s on edge. Everyone is missing the glaring truth in front of their eyes. Connie Milligan is dead. She was strangled in cold blood—she was the intended victim.”
Gil nodded soberly. “But we still don’t know why.”
By now the crowd had dwindled. They strolled around to the front of the observatory and stopped at the statue of the astronomers. Copernicus stared down at them. He had the same bob haircut as Miss Simkin.
The Silver Blonde Page 16