“So sorry about your sister,” he said without much sincerity.
Then he actually looked at me, and his expression changed completely.
He squeezed my hand hard, pulling me closer to him so he could peer into my face. He looked me over, head to toe, his eyes gleaming with interest and his breath quickening.
“By god,” he said, not letting go of my hand. “You look just like her.”
“Yes,” I said.
I was too used to hearing it to be surprised.
People thought Clara and I were twins from the time we were small—her a little short and me a little tall, so we were almost the same size. My mother used to dress us matching to encourage it.
Once Clara started appearing in films, people would stop me on the street, thinking I was her.
“You’re taller,” Heller said. “Not so skinny. And your hair is lighter.”
“Mm,” I said.
I never minded looking like Clara, because she was so pretty. But Heller saying it gave me a pang. I realized that before long, in the not-too-distant future, people would stop saying that. They’d forget about Clara. I wouldn’t look like anyone anymore.
“Sit down,” Heller said, offering me the chair across from his desk. It was lower and less padded than his own chair.
“Mr. Heller,” I said, “I want to know what happened to my sister.”
“Well, it appears she was killed,” Mr. Heller said uncomfortably.
“I’m aware of that,” I said. “Who did it?”
“The police are investigating.”
“And what have they found?”
“Well . . . well it’s difficult to say.”
“That’s unacceptable,” I told him. “My sister was murdered. She was strangled to death, four days ago, on your studio lot.”
“I’m well aware!” Heller said, his temper rising. “I’ve had reporters and cops swarming everywhere, not to mention the little problem that we’re two-thirds of the way through one of the most expensive movies ever made, and we’ve just lost our star!”
“How inconvenient for you,” I said coldly.
“Well, it is a consideration,” Heller said. He was squinting at me again, his dark eyes sharp and appraising. “Have you ever acted?” he asked abruptly.
“No,” I said.
“Would you like to?”
“What?” I frowned at him. “I’m trying to discuss—”
He interrupted me. “What if you were to finish the film? Take your sister’s place?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I snapped.
“We can’t re-shoot all the scenes she’s in,” Heller coaxed. “It would ruin us. We’ve got to use a double. But there’s still so many speaking parts. You could do it—you look like her, and you sound like her too, or close enough.”
“I have no interest in acting,” I said. “I came here to make arrangements for my sister. And to see justice done. I know how things are done here—I won’t allow this to be swept under a rug.”
“No one’s trying to sweep it under a rug!” Heller said, getting red in the face. “These sets are enormous, you have no idea. There’s hundreds of people all around. We had a hundred extras just for the battle scene.”
“And I notice security isn’t particularly tight,” I said, thinking of the guard reading his magazine.
Heller turned redder still. “There’s usually no need!” he cried. “This is hardly a common occurrence.”
I could see he was flustered and defensive, which seemed like the perfect time to make my request.
“My sister’s funeral will be held tomorrow at St. Mark’s cathedral,” I told him.
“I’m sure all of the crew will want to attend,” he said. “Your sister was very well-liked.”
He was trying to pacify me.
“I’ll need a check for eight hundred dollars to cover the expenses,” I said. “Made out to Forest Lawn Mortuary.”
“Eight hundred—” Heller sputtered.
My mother always told us that when you meet a hard man, you have to be harder. She used to say, Strength only respects strength.
“My sister was killed at your studio,” I repeated. “While filming your movie. I’m sure you don’t want her buried in a pine box in a pauper’s lot? What a story that would make for all those rabid reporters.”
Mr. Heller stared at me. He was flushed all the way up to the razor-straight part in his hair. But his dark eyes were still keen and calculating.
He took out his checkbook and an expensive-looking pen. He laid them on his desk and even uncapped the pen. But he did not immediately begin to write. After all, he hadn’t made it to the top echelons of Hollywood by taking the first deal offered.
“Of course I’d like to help with your sister’s funeral,” he said. “But I really think we could do so much more for her. You know what a big film this was for her—for all of us! Arabian Nights! A two-thousand-year-old story. It would have been the role of her lifetime—her legacy! We can’t let it go unfinished. Why don’t you and I make a deal? You take your sister’s place, finish the movie, and I’ll pay for the funeral, and give you a salary besides—a hundred dollars a week, what do you think of that?”
I thought it sounded bloody awful. I had no interest in appearing in a movie. In fact, the idea terrified me. It made me feel sick to my stomach.
I never thrived off attention like Clara did. I was always happy to let her have the spotlight, so I could watch and listen in peace.
However, what Mr. Heller had said was true—in the days since my sister’s death, the police seemed to have made little progress. No one saw anything, no one heard anything. If I intended to be sure that progress was made, that Clara’s murder didn’t simply become another gossip headline, crumpled up and forgotten when the next story broke, then I had to stay in California. I could harass the police much more effectively in person than over the phone.
And even better than that—if I worked on the set where Clara died, I could look around myself. I could meet people, I could ask questions.
I had no illusions that I could do detective work better than the professionals, but I would certainly be in a unique position to see or hear things they might miss.
I might be working with the very person who killed my sister.
That thought hit me like a blow—sudden and unpleasant.
If Clara was killed by a Paramount employee, then that person, most likely, was still coming to work each day as if nothing had happened.
If I refused to finish the movie, the crew might disband, they might be split up to work on a dozen new films spread across the city.
But if I agreed to take my sister’s place, it might well be that whoever had killed Clara would have to stay exactly where they were, they would have to keep doing their job. They might even have to work side by side with me as they had once done with Clara. Maybe, just maybe, the stress and pressure of that scenario might crack the killer’s facade.
I looked at Mr. Heller’s round, ruddy face, his thin lips pressed tight together. He was trying not to look too eager.
Determined not to be bullied by him, I wouldn’t agree too easily either.