“You paid my sister two hundred dollars a week,” I said.
“Your sister was a professional.”
I shrugged. “She wanted to do this. She didn’t have responsibilities back in Chicago.”
Mr. Heller twisted the cap of his pen.
“One-fifty a week,” he said reluctantly.
“Agreed.” I nodded. “And don’t forget the check for the mortuary.”
Once we shook hands, and I had signed my name to a temporary work contract that Mr. Heller conjured out of nowhere with the speed of a magician, Heller became much more affable, even offering to book me a room at The Georgian Hotel, which he assured me would be much superior to the cheap motel I’d reserved.
“You’ll want to be close to the set,” he told me. “The Georgian is where everybody stays. Every room has a view of the ocean. You’ll love it.”
I guessed what he really wanted was to keep an eye on me. Maybe he thought I’d renege on our agreement as soon as the funeral finished.
There was no chance of that happening. But I was happy to let him spend the studio’s money on my room.
“Thank you,” I told him. “That would be nice.”
I strode out of the studio, equal parts pleased and terrified.
I’d gotten what I wanted out of Heller . . . but I’d also committed myself to something that might be sheer insanity.
I passed the security guard in his booth. He still had his nose deep in his newspaper, barely glancing up as I walked by.
It was easy to hail a cab once I was out on the street. And the cabbie knew exactly where to find my hotel.
“This is it,” he said, pulling up in front of the steps. “The Georgian.”
He need hardly have announced it—the bright turquoise exterior would have been impossible to miss, even without the lemon-yellow trim and striped awnings.
The doorman came rushing out to take my suitcase. He was an older man, about sixty, skinny and wiry. I felt a little guilty handing over my heavy bag, but he heaved it up the steps easily enough. He introduced himself as Walter.
“Would you like a tour of the facilities?” he said. “We have a pool, a beauty parlor, a lounge . . .”
“No thank you.” I shook my head.
The relentless glamor of Hollywood was making me feel low once more. I was exhausted from seeing Clara and then arguing with Mr. Heller.
Tomorrow would be the funeral. The next day, with no break at all, I’d start work on Arabian Nights. It had all happened so suddenly that it hardly seemed real.
Walter took me straight up to my room on the fifth floor. As Mr. Heller promised, I did indeed have a direct view of the ocean, flat and sparkling, dotted by distant white sails.
The room itself was small, but nicer in every way than my cheap apartment in Chicago. The furniture looked clean and new, the bedspread immaculate, and the walls papered in a pretty floral print.
I saw a large radio sitting on an end table, and a telephone with a cord that looked like it could stretch all the way across the room.
“Would you like me to show you how to switch that on?” Walter said, nodding to the radio.
“No thank you,” I said. “I’m sure I can figure it out.”
“There’s nobody in the room below you, so feel free to Jitterbug as much as you please.”
Walter gave me a little salute and left me alone in the room.
I flopped down on the tightly-stretched coverlet without even taking off my shoes. I knew I should probably brush my teeth and maybe even take a shower before I got too tired. But it felt too delicious to lay down.
There I was, with my cheek pressed against a fancy linen pillowcase, smelling the tang of salt in the air, hearing the distant rhythm of waves breaking against the shore. With no idea of when I’d be back in Chicago.
The stranger the pathway unfolding before me, the more I felt compelled to follow it. I wasn’t a great believer in luck, but I did believe in opportunity.
3
I chose St. Mark’s cathedral for Clara’s funeral because it was one of the largest in the area. Still, I underestimated how many people would turn out to mourn the tragic and gruesome death of a starlet.
The chapel was so crammed with people that they stood six deep behind the pews, with many more crowded in the open doorways and down the stone steps out into the yard.
Reporters snapped pictures of every celebrity in attendance, shouting questions to the uniformed police officers directing the crowd as if they were at a press conference.
“Sheriff Biscailuz! Sheriff Biscailuz! Any leads yet?”
“None that we’re willing to share with the public,” the sheriff repeated again and again, his expression stoic.
“Is it true that you’re looking into Ms. Bloom’s ties to organized crime?” one young man shouted at the police chief.
I looked over in surprise. The young reporter was standing next to an elegant woman wearing a smart suede cap with an eagle feather trim. The woman had eyes that turned down at the corners and a mouth that turned up at the edges. She smiled toothily, calling out, “How about it, Chief? Are you looking at Ms. Bloom’s boyfriend, Bugsy Siegel?”
The sheriff folded his arms across his chest. He was wearing a suit, not a uniform like the other officers.
“Ms. Hopper,” he said in a calm and monotone voice, “we are currently following all avenues of inquiry, and that’s all I have to say on the matter.”
“So you have talked to Bugsy?” Ms. Hopper persisted.
“We are talking to all Ms. Bloom’s friends and acquaintances,” the sheriff repeated.
“Don’t pay any attention to her,” Ruby Ikes said, taking my arm. “She writes for the Times. She’s a gossip columnist.”
Ruby had been sent over by Paramount that morning to help me with the funeral arrangements. She told me that she had been the one to find Clara’s body.
“It was the worst moment of my life,” she said, her big blue eyes full of tears behind her thick glasses.
Ruby was remarkably helpful—after all, her job was to fulfill the exacting and unreasonable demands of directors and actors on set. She had useful suggestions on how to seat the guests for the service, and who I should allow to say a few words on Clara’s behalf.
I had my own motives in placing myself at the front of the chapel, at an angle to the mourners. I wanted to watch their faces during the service. I wanted to see whose tears were real and whose might be fake. I’d be watching for signs of stress, guilt, or even glee.
When I first heard the news of Clara’s death, I felt a black hole of despair open up inside of me. A sucking vortex that took in all attempts at comfort and allowed no joy to escape.
But I had never been able to stay miserable for long. I was a practical person, a stubborn person. I liked to puzzle things over and pick them apart. That was why I’d always been good at languages—I never tired of the endless lists of nouns and verbs, conjugations and tenses.
As soon as I decided to stay in California, my focus shifted from mourning to seeking. I wanted to know who killed Clara. I wanted to see them punished.
I made sure that Ruby sat right next to me, so she could provide names for anyone who caught my attention.
Many of the attendees needed no introduction. Clara’s co-star was seated right in the front row with his equally famous wife: Clark Gable and Carole Lombard. Gable looked suave and dapper, his mustache freshly trimmed. Ms. Lombard had her pretty blond curls pinned up under a stylish black hat with a veil. Though both looked somber and respectful, I noticed that they held hands throughout the service and that Ms. Lombard sometimes leaned her head on Gable’s shoulder.