The Silver Blonde

by Elizabeth Ross

  Clara took in the setting. The desert was impressive and yet foreboding—there was something prehistoric about the landscape, as if humans and their modern architecture shouldn’t be trespassing.

  “Spectacular,” said Gil, squinting in the sunlight. “Don’t you think, honey?” He was overdoing the acting, but his charm was working on the housekeeper.

  “You seem like a sweet couple,” said Mrs. Irvine. “Where are you from?”

  Gil gave her a broad smile. “San Bernardino,” he said without missing a beat. “Say, Western Auto have an office in town? A pal of mine, his sister worked for Mr. Pearce before the war. She was a secretary, a temp over the holidays. I swear it was Palm Springs.”

  “That would be for the younger Mr. Pearce—their son, Conrad. He runs a movie studio, and if he stayed out here for a bit, he’d hire a local girl to type up his correspondence, that sort of thing—easier than bringing someone out from LA. Cheaper too, no doubt.” Mrs. Irvine shaded her face from the sun. “The Pearce family aren’t silly with money. That’s why they have it, I suppose.”

  “Conrad Pearce?” said Clara, a little dazed. “Of Silver Pacific?”

  “That’s right.” The dog had found something to bark at over by the fence, behind a bird of paradise. Mrs. Irvine craned her neck. “Stop that, Snowball. That’s enough. Leave it!”

  Clara grabbed Gil’s arm and mouthed Conrad Pearce.

  “Some office,” said Gil, keeping his cool. “It’s a cracking view.” He gestured to the surroundings.

  Suddenly the heat was getting to Clara. Her breath quickened and she began to feel light-headed—the head of the studio. The sunlight pricked her eyes, and she blinked quickly, squinting at the starbursts.

  “You okay?” asked Gil.

  Clara shook her head.

  “Yes, let’s go in. It’s too hot,” said Mrs. Irvine. She called the dog. “Snowball, come.”

  Indoors they were cloaked in cool air. Clara sat at the long teak dining table gripping a glass of water, her heart pounding. She breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth as if she were swimming, and the dizzy feeling began to subside.

  Gil and Mrs. Irvine were in the kitchen, where the housekeeper was prattling on. “Before the war we had movie people around all the time—film directors Huston and Capra, writers and actors. That lovely actress, what’s her name again, the one who played Scarlett, or was it Melanie, in Gone with the Wind?”

  Mrs. Irvine was like a wind-up toy once you got her going; she didn’t stop talking. It gave Clara the chance to look around. There were a collection of trophies and a couple of framed photographs on the sideboard—she pushed back her chair and went over. A silver cup was engraved Kenneth and Dolly Pearce, Mixed Doubles Champions. Palm Springs, 1936. Next to it there was a framed photograph of the couple sporting golf outfits. Their teeth shone very white; they were tan, grinning…and familiar. It was on the periphery of her memory. Just out of reach. An upscale setting, an introduction, she was watching through the eyes of a child.

  Clara could hear Gil. “I don’t suppose you’d remember her, my friend’s sister?” he asked. “Around Christmas in 1938. A blonde, pretty.”

  “Christmas 1938,” Mrs. Irvine mused. “Oh goodness, we had so many guests that year. Mr. Conrad invited a bunch of Hollywood folk. I was run off my feet…”

  Clara stopped listening to Mrs. Irvine. She was suddenly back on the Europa—that was where she had seen them before. The toothy Americans, Kenneth and Dolly Pearce. They were shaking hands with Leni Riefenstahl.

  Clara spun around to signal Gil. But Mrs. Irvine was still chattering nonstop. Clara watched the housekeeper’s mouth move, but everything was out of sync. Instead Clara was hearing Mr. and Mrs. Pearce in the Winter Garden. She was imagining what they must have said to Leni Riefenstahl: You must meet our son, Conrad. He’s in movies. He runs his own studio.

  “Sweet thing,” said Mrs. Irvine. “But I’m terrible with names.”

  Clara tuned back into the conversation and joined them in the kitchen. “And the guests that winter,” she said, too forcefully. “Do you remember the German actress? You must remember Miss Riefenstahl?”

  It was as though a bell had rung to signal the end of their conversation. Mrs. Irvine stiffened suddenly, and her eyes flitted between them. “No,” she said primly. “I don’t remember, I’m afraid. There were a lot of people coming and going.” The warmth had left her voice. “I should be getting on. Let you get back to your tour. Frank Sinatra is building a house down the street.” She moved to the door, not making eye contact. “I’ll see you both out.”

  The leather seats of Gil’s car were burning hot even though they had been gone barely thirty minutes. “Boy, did you see that reaction?” Gil turned the key in the ignition. “Talk about a conversation stopper.”

  “Leni Riefenstahl must have stayed here,” said Clara. “Why else would the housekeeper freeze up like that?”

  “She was probably told never to mention it to anyone,” said Gil. “And we rang the alarm bells.”

  He executed a swift U-turn. The breeze of the convertible was welcome on Clara’s face. “Why did Connie not tell her mother who she had worked for? Wouldn’t she have bragged about it?”

  Gil put on his shades. “Conrad Pearce is fond of confidentiality agreements. She probably had to sign something to get the job.”

  Clara shook her head. “I can’t believe it, Connie and Leni Riefenstahl here at the same time under Conrad Pearce’s roof.”

  * * *

  —

  A half hour later Gil and Clara were sitting by the pool of the Palm Springs Racquet Club, shaded by a blue-and-white umbrella. It was members only, but Gil had managed to drop the Silver Pacific studios name, and open sesame, they were shown to a table outside. Gil finished his iced tea, leaned back, and closed his eyes, enjoying the sun, unruffled. It was low season, and the club wasn’t crowded.

  Clara took a sip of her soda and watched a couple splashing in the pool—engaged in flirting more than serious aquatics. She imagined for a moment it was her and Gil. Then she decided she preferred things as they were, unraveling a mystery—figuring out the clues together. Given the popularity of the club, they were hoping to find more information. Clara had filled him in on where she had seen Kenneth and Dolly Pearce—the American couple on the Europa—recalling how she had noticed their photo on Pearce’s desk. She had thought they’d appeared perfectly cast—a quintessential older couple. But perhaps that feeling of familiarity was because she had met them before. If she had looked closer, would she have recognized them? Everything was happening so fast, all the dots joining up. The weight of what they had discovered felt oppressive, like the desert afternoon sun.

  Although smooth, Gil hadn’t been able to talk his way into a look at the Racquet Club’s guest register from years past. His request had been met with a pleasant but firm no. “For the privacy of our members,” the young chap at the front desk had said. “If you’re interested in the club’s history, you’re welcome to take a look at our hall of fame in the Bamboo Room.”

  While Gil dozed in the sun, Clara checked her watch for the third time in as many minutes. The Bamboo Room was the club bar, which opened at five. Apparently it contained an array of photos and memorabilia from the club’s history. Clara was desperate to find something concrete connecting Leni Riefenstahl’s visit to Conrad Pearce. The stilted reaction of a housekeeper wasn’t the kind of solid proof they needed.

  At five minutes after five Gil stood at the bar and ordered two gin and tonics. The bar had a Hawaiian theme: bamboo cane furniture and bold floral prints. Drinks in hand, they moved to a table near the wall of photos and casually sipped, trying not to look too obvious about sizing up the people in the pictures. Eventually, Gil returned for a refill (“bartenders know everything”), and Clara perused the hall of fame. There were end
less shots of tennis tournaments and girls posing on diving boards or playing peekaboo with life preservers. There were a myriad of famous faces in tennis whites: Ralph Bellamy, Clark Gable, and Carole Lombard. Her eyes flickered over the smiling tanned faces.

  Gil returned from the bar with a triumphant expression. “Racquet Club New Year’s party 1939,” he said, laying a photograph album on the table.

  “What did the bartender say?” said Clara, opening the album.

  “The ‘German film star,’ as he called her, was here around the holidays before the war—a guest of Mr. Conrad Pearce. They were usually playing tennis or drinking with a crowd of Hollywood people. Remembers her as athletic—played tennis to win; didn’t just lie around like a pool decoration.”

  Clara pored over the snapshots. Tables littered with streamers and champagne glasses; bleary-eyed glamorous people; a 1939 banner and silly hats. She flipped a page.

  “There’s Pearce,” said Gil, pointing to a group shot on the right-hand page. She could hear the excitement in his voice.

  Pearce was in a tux at a long table with other revelers. And next to him, a glass of champagne in hand, wearing a coy smile, was Leni Riefenstahl. Clara stared at the photo as if she could enter the frame. “It’s her.”

  “ ‘Should auld acquaintance be forgot,’ ” said Gil.

  They were both quiet for a moment, contemplating the picture. Some tables in the bar were filling up. They heard a toast and the clink of glasses, a splash in the pool outside.

  Clara pried her eyes from the photograph album. “Have you ever seen her films?” she asked.

  “Sure,” said Gil, swirling the ice cubes around in his glass. “I saw her famous propaganda flick Triumph of the Will. It was during the war, before I shipped out. The Writers Guild had a screening so we could see what we were up against.” He shook his head and looked into the bottom of his gin and tonic. “I remember stumbling out of that screening, all that precision goose-stepping and the cacophony of ‘Sieg heil!’ ringing in my ears.” He looked at Clara. “And I thought: ‘We’re beat.’ ”

  * * *

  —

  They drove up into the foothills, to see the house once more before they left town. It was dark by now, and the moon had risen. Clara told Gil everything she had found out about Leni’s visit to LA, from Kristallnacht to the boycott, and Leni’s trying to sell Olympia but telling the press she was just on vacation.

  They parked just before the house. Bleak and barren at first glance, the desert by night was like a snowscape, beautiful and expansive—otherworldly. The moon was so bright that Clara could see the chrome on the Plymouth glinting as though it were daytime. The shadows of palm trees striped the lawn; a waft of fragrance hit her, subtle and too soft to name. All was quiet and still in the desert compared to the traffic and energy of LA. She had told her parents not to wait up, that she would be late. No one knew where she really was—alone in the desert with Gil. An irrational note of fear struck her, then faded, absurd.

  “So what now?” Clara looked across at Gil.

  He shook his head. “We found a connection, but I don’t like where it’s leading.”

  “I know,” she sighed. The idea that the head of the studio could somehow be connected to a murder on his own lot was uncomfortable—it was crazy, when she stopped to think about it.

  Gil started the car. “We should get on the road. It’s going to take us a few hours to get to LA.”

  The night air was clean and cool like a drink of water. When they picked up speed on the highway, the soft top whistled Pearce’s name. The head of the studio was all Clara could think. They didn’t talk; the noise of the road and the revelations in Palm Springs were too loud.

  After Riverside, Clara was beginning to doze off when a truck veered into their lane and Gil was forced to swerve suddenly. Clara felt a flood of adrenaline—a futile reaction to the danger; their tiny convertible would be no match for a truck that size. After the scare passed, she considered the discoveries they had made in Palm Springs. If they went after Conrad Pearce and if they were wrong, how swiftly their lives and careers could be undone—and worse, what if they were right?

  Clara must have dropped off again. When she woke, they were cresting a hill and the lights of Los Angeles were laid out for them. “Gets me every time,” said Gil. “This city.” She didn’t know whether he meant this was good or bad.

  Once in LA, they stopped at a red light on Virgil.

  “Feel like a nightcap?” said Gil, raking a hand through his hair.

  Clara thought of various excuses for why she should get home, but they dissolved on her tongue. “Sure,” she said.

  He took a long look at her. “Okay. My place.”

  When the light turned green, Gil turned left instead of right on Santa Monica, toward Hollywood and his apartment.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Franklin Avenue

  GIL SNAPPED ON THE kitchen light. “Not exactly the Beverly Hills Hotel,” he said as he tossed his keys onto the table, a dinged-up dinette. Off the kitchen, through an archway, was the living room. Clara’s eyes followed him as he turned on a couple of lamps and swept a newspaper off the couch. “Make yourself at home,” he said, returning to the kitchen.

  Clara wandered into the living room. The place was spartan and needed a new coat of paint. There were stacks of books on the floor and a couple of pictures waiting to be hung. Judging by the coating of dust, they had been waiting awhile. A gramophone sat on an end table, and she glanced at the record inside. Jazz.

  “Drink?” Gil called out. She heard him flipping open kitchen cupboards. “Brandy? It’s French.”

  “Sure,” said Clara.

  “Put on some music,” said Gil from the kitchen.

  Clara turned on the gramophone and put the needle on the record. Being in Gil’s apartment for the first time was strange, too intimate and all at once. She didn’t sit down. She felt nervy, unable to keep still, like a horse before a race.

  Gil walked toward her holding a pony glass in each hand. “Calvados. Got it from a local when I was over there. He’d been saving it until the Krauts left—” He stopped short. “Sorry. I keep forgetting.”

  Clara smiled and took the glass. “Skip it.” She nodded to the picture frames on the floor. “When did you move in?”

  “Six months ago.” He let out a laugh. “Been meaning to get around to that.” They were both awkward. Eventually Gil nodded to the couch. “Have a seat.” His smile made her forget what she’d been about to say.

  The couch was a dark brown velvet, worn in places but comfortable.

  Gil clinked his glass to hers. “To hunches.”

  Clara took a great gulp of brandy. It tasted of candied apples and set her throat alight. She swallowed a cough. “Strong.”

  “Easy. It’s the good stuff.” Gil swirled the amber liquid around in his glass.

  Clara watched him. “Who gave you the calvados?” From his face, she saw she’d hit a raw nerve.

  Gil took his time. He inhaled a long breath, working up to the memory. “We were in Normandy just after the invasion. Chaos. Some locals were caught up in the skirmish. There was a couple; the wife fell and hurt her ankle. She couldn’t walk. Me and a buddy of mine, we got her to safety, but my friend got hit.” He was making an effort to keep it simple, but Clara could read the pain on his face.

  “What happened to him, your friend?” she said softly.

  Gil let out a tight breath. He shook his head. “He didn’t make it.” He stared through the coffee table and into the past. “We saved the guy’s wife. Something good came out of it.” He raised his glass a hint. “And he gave me the brandy.” He smiled, but his eyes were empty. They sat in silence for a bit.

  Clara thought about the invasion. The Krauts, the enemy. She recalled Matthias in his Hitler Youth uniform. He was f
orever fourteen in her memories, preserved in amber, the fading summer light, Freya’s backyard. But he would have been twenty in 1944. Same age as Gil.

  “Okay, Detective,” he said, shaking off the past. “What’s our theory? Lay it out.”

  Clara set her drink down on the coffee table, took a breath, and began. “1938, Kenneth and Dolly Pearce meet Leni Riefenstahl on board the Europa. The American couple is charmed by the Führer’s favorite film director. They say, ‘You must meet our son Conrad. He runs a movie studio.’ ”

  Gil jumped in: “When everyone else in Hollywood is giving Leni the cold shoulder, Conrad sees an opportunity.”

  “He wants to purchase the US rights to her award-winning Olympics film,” said Clara. The brandy had already warmed her up and evened out her nerves. Her awkwardness at being in his apartment had evaporated. They were back to their companionable rhythm.

  Gil nodded. “Leni’s timing is crummy—Kristallnacht and all. But Pearce figures the politics will settle down. He’s not thinking that war is going to break out—not with the US, at any rate. He whisks her away to Palm Springs—away from the glare of the press and the Hollywood Anti-Nazi League.”

  “Was it more than a business arrangement?” said Clara.

  “Leni and Pearce?” Gil thought for a moment.

  “Yes, did they have an affair?”

  Gil shrugged. “It’s possible. Either way, it doesn’t look good now.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “Okay, where were we: Christmas in Palm Springs.”

  Clara nodded. “Right. Pearce needs a secretary to help him with all the demands of his day-to-day running of the studio while he’s out of town. Typing memos, placing calls, whatever.”

  “He hires a temp, a young kid from San Bernardino,” said Gil, taking a sip of his brandy.