“You lied—you both lied to me.” Eleven-year-old Klara stood, slack-jawed and disbelieving.
“It was a risk, Klara—to tell you what we were planning.” Her father stopped pacing and looked at her directly. “Had anyone found out we weren’t planning on coming back, they would have stopped us. I could have been arrested.”
“We didn’t want to put that burden on you,” said her mother with a more pleading tone. “Lying to friends and teachers, keeping such a secret.” She was swiveling her wedding band around her ring finger, the way she always did when she was anxious.
Klara couldn’t decide which was worse—not returning to Berlin (impossible to imagine) or her parents’ duplicity. Couldn’t they have trusted her? Her goodbye with Freya had been too casual. In a parting that was forever, she would have embraced her best friend with a whispered pledge of undying friendship. Precious tokens would have been exchanged.
“I won’t stay in America. I want to go home! I don’t care what you say about Hitler, and the Nazis, and Papa being on a list—I’m not on a list.”
Her mother shot a worried glance at the door. “Klara, keep your voice down.”
“Klara, listen—” her father began.
“No! I won’t listen to another word.” She stormed out of the cabin, forgetting to take her coat.
She felt ashamed even now—not just about the hurtful words she’d said, but that her parents hadn’t trusted her. That they’d known she might betray them.
After breakfast her father was at the sink doing dishes. Clara watched him for a few moments, thinking about what lay ahead the next day. Could she and Gil really take on the head of the studio? Could they find proof to show that he had murdered Connie Milligan? Was Clara brave enough to try? While knowing that in the background the cops were building a case against Gil? The odds were against them.
Clara grabbed a dishtowel and began to dry the dishes. “Papa, when did you know that you had to speak out against the Nazis? How did you know it was the right thing to do?”
He reflected for a moment. “It started with just a small thing—I defended a Jewish colleague who had been forced out. But it was like removing a blindfold. I couldn’t un-see the truth. I kept speaking out. It wasn’t a choice. It was an obligation—even if I was scared.”
“And the university fired you?” said Clara.
He nodded. “Yes. And then I was put on a list, and you know the rest.”
“Did you regret it?”
“Not for a moment. We got out, of course. I don’t know how I would have felt had it gone badly, if we hadn’t been as lucky. I hope I still would have done the right thing.”
Could she be as brave as her father? The thing she most wanted—her film career—would be snatched away. She thought back to the day when she got the yes from Thaler. It felt like a lifetime ago.
Her father turned off the tap. “Klara, I wondered,” he said, making an effort to sound casual. “Do you want me to call Dr. Gröning?”
Clara stopped drying the plate in her hands and stared at her father. “No.” How could he bring that up? “I’m fine.”
“He was so helpful last summer. It might be nice to talk to someone. You’ve had quite a shock—the murder at the studio.” He shook his head like it pained him to say it.
Clara put the dry plate on the counter and took another one from the rack. “I don’t need to speak to anyone.”
She recalled Dr. Gröning’s sunny office, the bland artwork and his collection of desert succulents. Clara had insisted they speak English. She would stare at the otherworldly plants—reminiscent of coral or sea creatures—during the sessions. It was easier to describe her feelings when she fixed her gaze on something other than Dr. Gröning’s penetrating blue stare. He was German of course, but an earlier émigré. He’d arrived in Los Angeles in ’33, which elevated him in her parents’ circle. There was a hierarchy in the refugee community—the earlier you fled Germany, the more highly you were regarded. People usually paid a lot of money to talk to Dr. Gröning, and Clara was supposed to feel grateful that he’d agreed to see her as a favor to her parents.
“If you change your mind…,” her father persisted. “I’d be happy to call him.”
Clara put away the plates in the cupboard with a deliberate clatter. “No, Papa.” It was an unspoken agreement. They didn’t talk about last summer. It had been just after V-E Day and high school graduation. Clara had been very low. She’d let friendships slide away. She’d stopped going out or answering phone calls. She would spend hours alone at the cinema, at sparsely attended matinees and reruns. In the end it was Max’s idea to get her a job at the studio. It wasn’t the sort of thing her parents would normally approve of, but they’d been desperate to pull Clara out of her slump (as they’d called it) and back into the real world. Last summer was in the past, in a box, locked and stored away. It wasn’t to be brought out and aired in passing, like a harmless anecdote.
Her father wiped down the faucet and dried his hands. “All right, I’ll leave you to get on. Buyers for the couch are coming this afternoon.”
Clara nodded mechanically. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him pause to look at her before leaving the kitchen. She pretended not to see.
Chapter Thirty
Bungalow Eight
THE BIGGEST CONTRACT STARS each had their own bungalow at the studio. More than a dressing room, it was a refuge, a home away from home, a place to decompress and be alone, to take a nap at lunch, or have a few drinks with co-stars after a long shooting day. Bungalow number eight—Barbara Bannon’s dressing room—was located off the main thoroughfares and was a decent drive in a golf cart from the executive building. In fact, it was closer to the postproduction building than Clara had realized.
Crew call time was nine a.m. Bannon’s call time was at seven a.m., to allow for hair, makeup, and wardrobe. Clara calculated that she would have time to catch Bannon (alone, hopefully) between eight-forty-five and nine-thirty, after the actress was prepped but before they needed her on set. Miss Bannon was still doing her own stand-in work.
Clara’s heart was tap-dancing in her chest as she rapped on the door of bungalow eight. She couldn’t pay attention to her fears. She had to confront Bannon for Gil’s sake. If the cops thought the Ruby motive was strong enough to sink Gil, the movie star could at least come to his defense. Clara could hear music coming from inside. She knocked again. “Miss Bannon,” she said, raising her voice. There was a dusty honeysuckle clinging to a trellis, and gingham curtains in the window. In a different context Clara could have been on a residential street in Glendale and not in the middle of a studio lot. After a couple of minutes and no answer, Clara held her breath, opened the door, and stepped inside.
Barbara Bannon was standing—in full costume and makeup—on a stepladder, wielding a hammer. She barely glanced at Clara. “Is this thing straight?” She was talking about the picture frame she was in the process of hanging. “I moved it from the other wall. It looks better here, don’t you think?”
They sat in Bannon’s dressing area, Clara on a patterned couch and Bannon in a swivel chair, her back to the three-way mirror ringed with lights. On the far wall there was a movable rack of her costumes for the movie, as well as a closet for her own clothes. Next to Clara at the end of the couch was a brass drinks caddy. The room was neat and feminine, and Clara felt like they were little girls playing house.
“What about Connie?” said Bannon. She was camera ready and totally intimidating. Clara thought she might melt under the actress’s direct gaze.
Clara took a deep breath and threw herself in at the deep end. “I think you lied about Connie. You said you weren’t close, gave the impression you didn’t care that much. But I believe you were friends.”
Bannon simply stared at her. “And? You want a medal or something?” She lit a cigarette and held it carefully,
away from her costume.
Clara stood her ground and waited for Bannon to explain herself.
“I’m an actress, and I’m pretty decent at it.” If she’d had a tail, she would have been flicking it about now. “You’re smarter than those detectives.” Clara noticed that Bannon didn’t deny it.
“How did Connie get the gig as your stand-in?” Clara studied her closely, the perfect symmetry of her face, nothing out of place, just one eyebrow arched higher than the other. And that small difference made her beautiful rather than pretty.
“I got her the job.” She pointed her cigarette in the direction of the stages. “She was working as an extra on the lot, and I was here for a meeting with Pearce, where he told me about the role in Argentan. I was in the ladies’ bathroom afterward, feeling in rough shape. She passed me a compact. We got to chatting. She cheered me up; she liked to laugh. And side by side in the mirror, we looked similar—same height, shape, and coloring. I liked her enough that I offered her the job, right there in the john.” She let out a laugh.
“No one objected?”
“I had to be tricky. I gave her headshot to the AD—someone I trust. He promised to steer Howard to my pick. So that was that. Connie was a lifesaver—you know what they put me through on this movie. We became friends. With Connie, I had an ally, someone to talk to.”
She stubbed out the barely smoked cigarette, dispensing with the delay tactic.
“Who made her lighten her hair?” asked Clara.
Bannon looked confused. “She wanted to try a lighter shade. It was no big deal. I called Rosa.” Clara felt stupid. She had been so focused on the idea that someone had been molding Connie to look like Bannon. Clara hadn’t considered that the stand-in changing her hair would be something so innocent. The article on Leni Riefenstahl was what had made Connie react strangely that day. It had had nothing to do with her hair.
“Do you have any idea who might have wanted to hurt her?” said Clara.
“Look, we were friends, but I have no idea who killed her or why.” Bannon turned back to the dressing table and peered at her reflection in the mirror.
Clara got up and stood behind her, refusing to end the conversation. “I think Connie’s murder has something to do with the studio, all the way to the top, and so do you. That’s why you’ve been cagey about your friendship. You know something. Admit it.”
Babe’s face was perfectly lit by the ring lights. “She’s dead. What can I do about that now? Even if I had an idea who killed her, it won’t bring her back.”
“Whoever did this is going to get away with it,” Clara continued. “You can’t let Connie’s death go unpunished, or worse, let an innocent person take the fall.”
“Who?” Babe swiveled around to face Clara.
“The cops are trying to pin it on Gil, because of your history together.”
“What!” She got up and began to pace. “They showed up at my house yesterday, firing questions at me. They were trying to pin Randall’s stupid letters on Gil.”
“Wait—what letters?” said Clara.
Bannon shook her head. “Just one of Randall’s little pranks to put me off-kilter—anonymous threats,” she spat. “It was childish. He probably panicked after the murder.”
So that would explain what Hawks had said at Bannon’s house that night, reassuring a paranoid Randall Ford that no one would find out about his prank—that he hadn’t caused any harm: She’s alive and well.
“What did you tell the cops about Gil?” asked Clara.
“That they were barking up the wrong tree and they must be pretty stupid if this is all they can come up with. I tore a strip off them and sent them packing.”
“Tell me the rest of Connie’s story,” said Clara, returning to her seat on the couch. “Please.”
Bannon flicked her hair. She ran her eyes over Clara, maybe wondering if she should trust her. She made a performance of sitting down again. Then she leaned back and struck a pose.
Clara was on the edge of her seat. She didn’t blink.
“It wasn’t long after the shoot had started, on the anniversary of V-E Day. Connie and I were both down in the dumps. We went out, got a little tipsy. Over drinks she told me she had a plan to engineer her own lucky break. She was going to get acting work, a contract at the studio, and a hefty payday.”
Clara’s heart leapt to her throat. “How? Did she say?”
Bannon shrugged. “She had leverage; that’s how she phrased it. She was fired up, cocky.”
Clara was hanging on her every word. “Did she mention any names? Anyone at the studio?”
The actress shook her head. “She wouldn’t say. But she promised that when she had all her ducks in a row, she would tell me the whole thing.” She raised an eyebrow. “Mentioned she could even help me get out of my contract.”
“Did you buy it?”
“Connie wasn’t a liar. But I took it with a grain of salt. I figured she was sweet on a director or a producer who was promising her the world.” Her voice grew softer. “She had plans. She wanted to buy a little house with a yard for Mae. Enough space for her mother to have her own suite. It was that simple.” The sunny words soured in Bannon’s mouth. “The night she was killed”—Bannon grew somber—“Connie was here in my dressing room, right there where you are on the couch. She told me she was going on an important date. I knew it had to be this scheme of hers, because she wouldn’t tell me who she was meeting or why. It was all hush-hush.”
“Did you catch a glimpse of him? Did she meet him on the lot?”
Bannon shook her head. “I left before she went to meet him. I stayed for a bit as she was getting ready, and did the only thing I could do—I did her makeup and told her to borrow an outfit from the costume rail. We were the same size.”
Clara looked at the rail of expensive tailored clothes. She could imagine Connie not being able to refuse the offer. During the whole shoot, while Bannon had worn made-to-measure evening gowns, fur, jewels, and sheer silk, Connie had been given something cheap and functional, as long as the color was right, the cut approximate. “And she chose the black cocktail dress,” said Clara, looking at an identical copy on a hanger.
Bannon nodded. “The wardrobe department has multiples of all my costumes. I told her to keep it. She had never worn decent clothes before.” Babe got up and began to pace again. “I armed her by making her look good. I warned her to be careful, whatever it was she was doing.” She stopped pacing, and her gaze drifted into the past. “The next day, Connie was dead and I was terrified. I replayed our conversations, and I realized she must have been playing with fire. She hadn’t just been flirting with a producer for a role; she’d been blackmailing someone. Someone powerful.” Pearce, Clara thought. “I was tight-lipped, acted the diva like we weren’t close, like I didn’t care a whole lot, because I didn’t want anyone to think I knew something about Connie’s blackmail scheme.” She looked down. “I was scared.”
“But why didn’t you say something? Why didn’t you tell the cops?” said Clara desperately.
Bannon let out a clap of laughter. “The cops in this town are bought and paid for. You think if the investigation points to someone with clout that they’ll lock him up? Of course not. They’ll find a patsy, a fall guy.”
A sharp knock, and they both jumped. A voice said, “Ready for you on set, Miss Bannon.”
“Gimme a minute,” she called back.
Bannon moved to the window and beckoned Clara over. They peered through the gingham curtains. Clara followed Bannon’s gaze. Along the asphalt road, past a rank of parked golf carts, Clara could see the familiar edge of the concrete bunker. The film vaults were a stone’s throw from Bannon’s dressing room.
Chapter Thirty-One
Paper Trail
CLARA HAD TOLD SAM she was going to accounting when she went to Bannon’s bungalow. He
had raised an eyebrow. “Don’t dillydally, Clara.” Now she had to hustle in that direction.
On her brisk walk over, she kept seeing flashes of different scenes—1938 and 1946—refracted and moving like a kaleidoscope. Clara could now assume, after hearing Bannon’s story, that Connie must have been meeting Pearce the night she was killed. But she didn’t have any concrete proof Connie had been blackmailing the studio head. Still, Clara knew she was getting close.
* * *
—
Time cards had been due on Friday afternoon, but Clara had been distracted, to say the least. So she was filling out last week’s time card now.
“Mark the production number you’re working on,” Doris reminded her.
“Oh, right. I’m not used to that,” said Clara. This was her first union time card. “Do you know the number? It’s Letter from Argentan.”
“SP 4025,” Marianne called out from across the office.
Clara dutifully filled it out, then stopped, staring at the numbers as if they had unlocked a secret combination. What if the number on Connie’s script wasn’t a phone number? What if it was a production number: SP for “Silver Pacific,” not SP for “SPRING,” the telephone exchange?
Slowly she handed the time card back to Doris and racked her brains for an excuse to ask about it. “While I’m here, one of the editors was trying to find some stock footage—we haven’t been able to track it down. Maybe it’s been archived in the wrong place. If I give you the production number, can you help me out?” She tried to sound casual, as though this were an afterthought.
“I’m surprised Miss Simkin would misplace anything,” said Doris.
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