“What information could Connie have had that would be so dangerous against Pearce years later, after the war?” asked Clara.
“Whatever happened in Palm Springs must have significance now,” said Gil. “Nuremberg is all over the press, war crimes, Nazi-loving chickens coming home to roost. Hitler’s filmmaker is surely getting convicted of something. Connie sees a little leverage. What if it came out about Pearce’s closeness to Hitler’s honey?”
“Blackmail,” said Clara under her breath. “Connie wanted her shot at Hollywood—wanted to make up for lost time. Unless Pearce gave her a leg up, she was going to spill his past with Leni Riefenstahl—whatever happened in ’38 in Palm Springs. And like you said, the timing couldn’t have been worse, with Nuremberg in the background.”
It was late. They were punch-drunk but too excited to call it a night. Gil stood up and began to pace. “She approaches him—on the set where she’s an extra,” he said, picking up the story. “She puts the screws on him. He throws her a bone and gives her a stand-in gig—good union hours, her own dressing room. On the set of a big movie, with a huge star. Not bad for a no-name girl from San Bernardino.”
“But she wanted more,” said Clara.
Gil nodded. “Right, that’s when Connie became a problem for Pearce.”
They were in sync like a screenwriting duo. “The police see a victim with no power, no influence, few friends, a dull life—save her job at the movie studio,” said Clara, summing up the detectives’ case.
Gil nodded. “No boyfriend, not many friends. They can’t find a motive for her death. They’re brushing her off.”
Clara was perched on the edge of the couch, eager to chime in. “But her bedroom reveals her longing, her Hollywood dreams—the dreams of a teenager. All the magazines and movie posters, makeup and clothes. Her reality was so far from that fantasy. She was a young widow in a dank apartment with a kid to support. And that distance between desire and reality created something acute in Connie—desperation.” Clara was getting breathless. “Desperation acted upon can only lead to disaster—to murder.” She swallowed hard. Her heart was hammering.
Gil stopped pacing. “Exactly.”
“What do we do now—go to the cops?” asked Clara.
He made a face. “We don’t have enough. We need the full picture. Solid proof. Maybe the US contract for Olympia. Something concrete that ties Pearce to Leni.”
“But Olympia was never released in the US.” Clara mulled it over. “Maybe that wasn’t it at all.”
Gil thought for a moment. “What if Pearce wanted to kiss up to the German film industry and keep that lucrative European market open for Silver Pacific films? By ’38 Warner Bros. wasn’t doing business in Berlin anymore. To keep selling in the German market you had to make concessions, recut films to please the Nazi regime. One by one the other studios were forced out or chose to shut down their German offices. Maybe Pearce used his connection with Leni to stay open for business in Nazi Germany?”
“What about the love angle?” said Clara. “The threat of a scandal, a love affair between Pearce and Hitler’s honey? Would that be enough of a motive to make Pearce want to silence Connie?”
“Whatever went on in Palm Springs,” said Gil, “Connie would know. Remember the house, the glass walls, open concept—nothing would be private.”
“All we have is that New Year’s picture,” Clara pointed out. “And we don’t even have it have it. It’s at the Racquet Club.”
Gil sat down again; they were running out of steam. “Right, we can’t prove Connie was blackmailing him. And we can’t go to the police until we’re certain. It’s half-baked. Besides, a mogul like Pearce can buy politicians, ensure favorable treatment from cops, or worse, have them look the other way. We should keep it to ourselves until we figure out how we’re going to play it.”
“Does it scare you? If we’re right, it could be dangerous.”
“I’ve faced worse than Pearce,” said Gil.
Clara’s eyes flicked to the glass of brandy, thinking of how he’d come by it. “But if we’re wrong,” said Clara, “and we take on the head of the studio, we wouldn’t just lose our jobs. We’d be blacklisted by every studio in town.”
“That should bother me, I guess.” He shrugged. “But since the war, the things I cared about—a Hollywood career, getting ahead—most of it doesn’t matter.” Clara couldn’t help but wonder if Ruby Kaminsky fell into that category of things Gil used to care about. “If the movies are done with me, I’ll go back to newspapers.”
Clara thought it over. She wasn’t so cavalier. She didn’t want to risk her career. Her only other option was to return to Germany with her parents. “We have to tread carefully,” said Clara.
Gil put on a new record and the sound of bluesy jazz filled the small apartment. He returned to the couch and sat down, closer to Clara than before. There was a lull as they listened to the sad trumpet and the lazy swish of brushes on a snare drum. Clara felt the intimacy of his apartment—the dim lighting, the warmth of the brandy.
Gil must have had the same thought, because he gently took her glass, and set it down on the coffee table. He looked at her, and her heart beat double-time. “Thanks for listening before.” He placed his hand on her cheek. His eyes ran over her face. Then he leaned close; she could feel his breath. The case, the clues, all of that noise receded. His lips brushed hers, and Clara melted into his kiss.
All of a sudden there was a banging noise, and Clara’s first thought was: Earthquake. They pulled apart. After the fright, she decoded the noise. Someone was knocking on the door. Gil stood up. Another thumping knock.
“Who is it—at this time of night?” Clara whispered.
Gil raked a hand through his hair. “I don’t know.” He strode through the living room, across the kitchen. “Okay, okay, I’m coming,” he shouted.
She heard the door open. Moments later Detectives Ireland and Rivetti walked into the apartment as though they owned the place.
Clara sprang off the couch. She knew how it looked—the jazz, the brandy glasses, the low lighting.
“Sorry we’re interrupting.” Rivetti leered at her, and his cheap aftershave hit her from the kitchen.
“Working late?” said Gil. Clara could hear the unease in his voice.
“A murder case keeps us busy,” said Rivetti, smoothing his tie. It was an ugly thing, too bright and busy for a detective.
Ireland nodded at Gil. “You’re a hard man to keep up with—took a little day trip, huh?” There was a hardness in Ireland’s voice that she didn’t recognize. There was none of the courtesy he’d used when talking to Clara before.
She watched as the cops seemed to circle Gil in the cramped kitchen. The air was thick with the kind of tension and anticipation before someone throws a punch—there wasn’t enough room in Gil’s apartment for all the weight being thrown around. Clara moved closer and hovered in the archway. The cops stood at either end of the kitchen, Gil between them.
“What’s so urgent?” asked Gil.
Ireland thumbed through his notebook.
“A few follow-up questions.” He was terse. Clara felt a cold weight press on her chest, making it harder to breathe—they were treating him like a suspect.
Gil lit a cigarette and leaned on the edge of the kitchen table. He did an approximation of looking relaxed, but Clara knew he’d needed something to occupy his hands. The cops had positioned themselves so that Gil couldn’t focus on both of them at once, his head turning back and forth like a tennis umpire.
Rivetti tried to make himself look taller. “Let’s go back to the night of the murder. You told us you were in your office that evening?”
The cops knew he had lied. Of course this would come back to bite him. Clara stared hard at Gil, willing him to tell the truth.
He nodded. “Yeah, I was at my desk
, working on rewrites. Why?”
“Can anyone vouch for you? Your writing partner?” Ireland squinted at his notebook. “Mr. Roger Brackett.”
Gil shook his head. “He leaves early. He has a busy social calendar.”
“No one else?” Rivetti threw a glance at Clara, daring her to speak up. She checked to make sure there wasn’t a button undone on her blouse. He had that kind of stare.
Gil blew a cone of smoke. “I was alone.”
In the living room Clara could hear that the needle was stuck at the end of the record.
“And did you leave your office between the hours of seven and nine-thirty p.m. for any reason?”
Gil shook his head again. “No.”
Ireland continued. “Guy named Hank Trimble—remember him?” Gil’s eyes narrowed. Ireland went on. “He was in an acting class with you way back when. He gave us an account of your relationship with Babe Bannon—sorry—Ruby Kaminsky. Says you two were a hot item until she dumped you for a Hollywood career and a leading man.” Ireland locked his eyes on Gil. “You were real cut up, according to Mr. Trimble.”
Gil glowered at Ireland, not hiding his disgust.
“It slip your mind,” said Rivetti, “your love affair with a movie star?”
“You never asked. And I wouldn’t pay too much attention to Trimble. He likes to gossip.” Gil tapped his cigarette on the edge of the ashtray with too much force, scattering flecks of ash onto the Formica table.
“What’s your relationship with Miss Bannon now?”
Clara held her breath, anxious to know the answer to the question she hadn’t dared ask.
Gil shrugged. “Professional. We don’t have much to do with each other.”
“That right?” said Rivetti, a gleam in his eye.
“No hard feelings, huh?” chimed in Ireland. “Where Babe Bannon’s concerned, you wish her nothing but the best?”
“Come on, Gilbert. You were obsessed with her.” Rivetti took a step toward him, like he wanted to start a fight. “Bannon becomes a star, Hollywood royalty.” He shook his head and couldn’t resist a smirk. “Must have burned you up. You couldn’t escape her name up in lights, her face on every magazine. Years of wanting her. But every time her name’s mentioned, it’s in the same breath as Gregory Quinn—the guy she dumped you for.” A beat while he let that blow land. Clara felt the sting of it. Rivetti was describing everything she had imagined herself. The doubt crept in. How could Gil not have feelings for Bannon? How could she not still affect him?
“And then the war’s over,” Rivetti continued. “You return home unscathed. Get this, you get hired on her movie—must have felt like fate, am I right? Or maybe that’s how you planned it. Maybe now that the competition—rest in peace—is out of the way, you think you have a shot.” His smirk had turned to a snarl. “No dice. She doesn’t give you the time of day, and that made you sore.”
“Is that what she says? Or have you concocted this yourselves? I’ve got no beef with Barbara Bannon—ask her.”
Clara felt suddenly claustrophobic in the tiny apartment. A waft of warm exhaust and the smell of garbage drifted through the open window. She looked at the apartment with new eyes. It went from neat and spartan to small and dingy. She remembered Bannon’s home—the tile, the exotic prints, the views from the pool, all of Hollywood laid out before her. Gil’s apartment faced the alley.
“And late one night you see her alone on the lot. You call her name. She doesn’t even turn around. You lose your temper, grab her from behind. You start squeezing. All that pain, it goes away.”
Clara felt her ears buzzing, that queasy roiling motion in her guts. She gripped the molding of the archway.
Ireland finally stepped in. “Crime of passion.” His voice was low and confessional. “Only, it was the wrong girl.” He gave an apologetic shrug. Good cop. “Maybe you realized it wasn’t Bannon right after, but it was too late. Maybe only the next day, when she scared the bejesus out of the crew, walking onto the set.”
Clara’s mind returned to the stage that day. How had Gil reacted? Shocked like everyone else. She’d been preoccupied with her own emotions; she hadn’t had time to register his.
Gil let out a bark of laughter. “You guys are wasted at the police department. They’re hiring screenwriters at Silver Pacific. But let me give you some feedback.” His voice hardened. “I don’t buy it for a second. How’d she end up in the vault?”
“Maybe you had an accomplice?” Rivetti shot a glance at Clara. “Someone to unlock the vault and conveniently implicate the vault boy.”
“What?” said Clara, not believing her ears.
Gil shook his head slowly. “If I was truly obsessed with Babe Bannon—as you insist—I’d never mistake some two-bit stand-in for the real deal.”
This cut Clara—worse than the cops’ theory. It was as good as a confession that he still had feelings for Bannon. The cops noticed it too.
“It was dark,” said Rivetti, flicking a glance at the bottle of brandy. “Maybe you’d had a few drinks. You writers drink Scotch like tea.”
“I thought that was detectives,” said Gil evenly. “I don’t drink at work.”
Clara could sense that he was trying to rein in his temper. Part of her wanted to reach out and touch him. Another part of her recoiled, like she was watching an animal caught in a trap.
“Bottom line, I didn’t do it and you’ve got no proof,” said Gil. He took a long drag of his smoke. “If I had wanted to kill Bannon, I wouldn’t have done in the wrong girl.”
Detective Rivetti weighed that for a moment, then turned to Clara. “You knew about his past with Bannon?”
Clara nodded slowly. “It wasn’t a secret.”
Gil’s eyes flitted between Clara and the cops.
“Didn’t bother you, Miss Berg? Playing second fiddle to a movie star?”
Gil smashed his cigarette in the ashtray and stood up straight. He was taller than Rivetti and better built. “Unless you’re planning to arrest me, I think it’s time you leave.” He glared at the detective, daring him to put his money where his mouth was.
The cops exchanged a look with each other. “All right, Mr. Gilbert,” said Ireland. “We’ll let you get back to your evening.” He touched his hat to Clara.
“We’ll be in touch,” Rivetti snarled. He turned to Clara. “Watch yourself, sweetheart. When it comes to love, three’s a crowd.”
They strutted out of the kitchen. “No more gallivanting out of town,” said Ireland over his shoulder. “We need to know where to find you.”
The door slammed. After they’d gone, their threats and Rivetti’s aftershave still hung in the air.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Home
THE NEXT MORNING, CLARA woke with a sense of dread—it took a moment for her mind to catch up. It was Sunday, and yesterday she’d been in Palm Springs with Gil. All the facts they had discovered about Connie working for Pearce in 1938, they all came flooding back in a rush—a reel of film at double speed—all the way until Gil’s apartment, their kiss, and the visit from the cops.
Clara sank back into her pillow. The evening had fallen apart as soon as the detectives had left. Gil had shrugged off the accusations, but he’d been rattled. They didn’t finish their drinks or return to the couch. The warmth and intimacy of his apartment had evaporated. Clara reassured him that the cops’ theory was nonsense, but still, it kept playing over in her mind, a grim shadow play she couldn’t un-see. They were both suddenly shattered. Gil called her a cab and paid the driver.
Alone in the back of the taxi, she felt chilled. The brandy had worn off. Their escapade to Palm Springs seemed very far away. The investigation was no longer a game, it was no longer a dare—drinks at the Racquet Club, fibbing to Pearce’s housekeeper, and nosing around his desert house. The stakes had changed. Finding out the truth about C
onnie’s murder was dangerous, and if they weren’t careful, it could pull both of them under.
Clara got up and got dressed. It was just past seven. She could smell coffee. In the dining room the table and chairs were gone. Her parents must have found a buyer. Every day it seemed like a piece of their American lives had disappeared, and she was running out of time to get herself situated and find a place to live before her parents left for Europe.
In the kitchen her father was boiling eggs and making coffee. The morning light was soft and golden, and seeing her father bathed in it, and knowing that her parents would be gone in a month, made her feel tenderly toward him. She came up behind him and gave him a hug.
“Klara,” said her father. “I feel as though I haven’t see you in days.”
“I’ve been busy at work.” Clara poured herself a coffee and sat at the kitchen table. “How’s Mutti?”
“She has a lot on her plate right now, with planning the move—both of us have our own apprehensions about going back to Germany.”
“Is she still angry with me?” asked Clara.
“Well, she’s taking it hard, yes, but she thinks you’ll come around.” He turned off the burner and spooned the eggs into a bowl of cold water. “Just try to be gentle with her. It’s hurtful to her, the idea of our family splitting apart.”
“But I’m eighteen now,” said Clara, thumping down her cup.
“I know.” He leaned against the counter and smiled the sad smile she knew so well. “I knew that this day would come, when you would leave home, make your way in the world.” He sighed. “The thing is, she wasn’t prepared to lose you so soon.”
His words made her feel wretched. She hadn’t considered how her parents felt about leaving her behind; Clara had been so focused on getting what she wanted. It was ironic that they were set against her staying in Los Angeles. The Bergs’ arrival in America had been preceded by another argument. She could remember it vividly. It was the outburst that had sent her running to the upper decks and led to her invasion of first class. They’d been in their cramped second-class cabin on the Europa. Her mother had been perched on the edge of the lower bunk, her father pacing (barely three steps back and forth).
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