I stared at her, open-mouthed. Despite all I’d heard from Clara about the sleazy side of Hollywood, I never would have guessed it applied to the princess of the silver screen, little miss Bright Eyes herself.
“It’s true,” Lillie said, softly. “This is an ugly place, for all its beauty.”
“Did Mr. Heller do anything to Clara?” I said. “Or Mr. DeMille?”
“I don’t know,” Lillie said. “I don’t know if she’d tell me if they did. There isn’t an actress in this city that hasn’t at least been groped or propositioned, or had to jump over a desk to avoid a man who won’t take no for an answer. Anita Colby—she’s an artistic director—told me that when she worked on Gone with the Wind, the producer David Selznick had a little button hidden under his desk. It was a switch that locked his office door. He could press it to trap you in the room with him, so you couldn’t get away.”
My head was spinning.
I was starting to think that Clara had shielded me from the reality of her life in Los Angeles, as she’d always tried to protect me when we were small. I still believed she loved working here. But it wasn’t necessarily the dream-come-true that I’d imagined.
At first I had wondered how I’d find any suspects. Now I was afraid I had too many. In a den of vipers, how could you ever know which one had bitten?
Slowly, I said, “Well, you’ve given me a lot to think about. Thank you, Lillie. I won’t take much more of your time. But if you can think, was there anything else strange with Clara over the last few months? Anything at all?”
“Well . . .” Lillie did think, for two or three minutes. Then at last she said, “She was sick. You know her asthma?”
“Yes.” I nodded. Clara had suffered from it from the time we were little. It was worse when we lived in the city, a little better when we stayed on our aunt’s farm.
“All the smoking on set and at parties bothered her. It was getting worse. She was coughing, sometimes so much she would vomit.”
“Did she see a doctor about it?”
“I told her she should,” Lillie said. “But she was worried about the studio finding out about it. She had the contract negotiation, and then she wanted the lead in Arabian Nights. You know they treat us like racehorses—the slightest flaw and you’re ruined.”
“She didn’t tell me that either,” I said, my stomach sinking. I always thought Clara and I were so close, but the more I was digging into my sister’s life, the more I was realizing that Clara had secrets.
And so does Lillie, I thought, as I thanked her for the tea, and exited her apartment at last.
I believed that Lillie cared about Clara, but I also felt that she was hiding something. So for that reason, before I hailed a cab outside the building, I took out my little notebook and made a new list, entitled Suspects.
First on the list I wrote:
Lillie LaShay.
5
Though it was getting late in the day and I was tired, I went directly from Lillie’s apartment to the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Office.
I had spoken with the police over the phone several times. From their vague and disorganized manner, I felt the same as Lillie—that they weren’t taking the investigation of Clara’s death seriously. I intended to go there in person to make my position plain.
I asked to speak to Sheriff Biscailuz but was informed that he was busy.
“That’s fine,” I told the officer behind the reception desk. “I’ll sit here to wait.”
Wait I did, for over an hour.
I spent the time watching every officer that came in and out, how they interacted with one another, how they looked over at me and whispered amongst themselves. A few gave me the type of appreciative glance always given by men who don’t work much around women. Others seemed to know who I was.
One officer seemed to be watching me more than anyone, though not with the same disdainful or leering manner of the others. He was on the younger side, with a lean, wolfish face, and shaggy, sun-bleached hair. He had his jacket off, slung over the back of his chair, and his sleeves rolled up so he could write more freely. He was making notes in a folder by hand, ignoring the typewriter on his desk.
The next time he looked over at me, I met his gaze and held it, frowning slightly. He locked his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair, giving me a slow, lazy smile that showed teeth much nicer than the rest of his appearance.
I didn’t want to smile back at him. Not at all. But his grin was so genuine that it was hard not to respond. I felt the corner of my mouth twitching, and I had to look away from him quickly.
At that moment Sheriff Biscailuz came out of his office, with no suggestion of hurry. He was still wearing his suit from the funeral. Maybe he dressed that way every day. He seemed like someone who spent most of his time in the office, not in the field.
He had thick black eyebrows, spectacles, and an expression of unflappable calm.
“Ms. Bloom,” he said politely, “how can I help you?”
“I’m here to get information about the investigation into my sister’s murder,” I said.
He raised those heavy eyebrows. “Come in my office,” he said.
As I seated myself before his desk, the sheriff said, “Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“I’m fine, thank you,” I said.
He sat down, folding his hands on the desk in front of him.
“Ms. Bloom,” he said, “I’m sure you’re very upset over your sister’s death.”
“Obviously,” I said, startling him a little.
“But,” he pressed on, “it would neither be appropriate, nor conducive to the investigation for me to provide details to anyone, even yourself.”
“I disagree,” I said.
“You . . . disagree?”
“Yes. Did you know I’ll be taking my sister’s place in the film? I’ll be working on the same set where she was killed.”
The sheriff’s thick brows contracted into a single line. They were stern and intimidating, the only point of expression on his otherwise taciturn face. I thought he must use them to great effect on suspects and subordinates. Right now they seemed to express how little he thought of my plan.
“I think I’ll be in a good position to gather information,” I said.
“That’s not your job,” Sheriff Biscailuz said. “That’s our job.”
“Of course.” I nodded. “But still, I think it would be helpful if we communicated. For instance, when going through my sister’s things, I noticed that Clara had more money than I would have expected. That’s an interesting piece of information, don’t you think?”
The sheriff didn’t seem to find it interesting at all.
“She was an actress,” he said flatly. “I hear they get paid pretty well. Better than us cops.”
I tried a different tack.
“I’m the only family Clara had,” I said. “I have a right to know what happened to her.”
“As I believe one of my officers told you, she was strangled.”
“How? In what way?” I demanded.
The sheriff stared at me with the slight look of disgust that men always gave when they didn’t think you were being ladylike.