Next to them, another blonde actress sat sobbing and wailing in a manner that struck me as false. Though the girl borrowed a handkerchief from Mr. Gable and repeatedly dabbed her eyes with it, it never seemed to become damp.
“Who’s that bawling over there?” I whispered to Ruby.
“That’s Deedee Blanche,” Ruby said. “She plays the Shahryar’s daughter in the film.”
I vaguely remembered Clara mentioning Deedee—she said she was a bit of a pill.
As I watched, Deedee cast a quick glance toward the photographers at the back of the church, checking to see if any had taken a picture of her looking prettily distraught.
I put Deedee on my mental list of people I needed to speak with.
Down the row from Deedee sat Mr. Heller with his wife and two young children. Next to them, a man that Ruby said was Barney Balaban, the president of Paramount. Ruby seemed surprised that Mr. Balaban had come—she didn’t think he knew Clara personally.
“I suppose he thought it wouldn’t look right if he didn’t attend,” Ruby said.
Apparently the director of the film, Mr. Cecil B. DeMille, didn’t share the same concern. Ruby said he was at the studio, making arrangements for the scene we’d be shooting the next day.
“I know it’s awful,” she said. “But it’s nothing personal to Clara. He’s completely mad. He works twenty hours a day sometimes, and sleeps in his office.”
“Did he and Clara get along?” I asked.
“As much as he gets along with anyone,” Ruby said, shrugging. “They had a few blow-ups, but they were the usual disagreements. He goes in a rage if you don’t do exactly what he wants for the scene. He fights with Mr. Gable the most, because Mr. Gable has his own ideas about his character and he doesn’t take orders very well.”
I winced, realizing that I might be on the receiving end of one of those blow-ups myself come the following day. In fact, it was almost certain, because I had no acting experience and was most likely about to make a complete fool of myself.
Seeing my face, Ruby said, “Don’t worry—I’m sure he won’t be so hard on you, since you’re just filling in.”
Her amendment wasn’t very convincing. I didn’t want to think about how I would soon be standing in front of a camera being hollered at by Mr. DeMille, so I went back to examining the attendees instead.
In the next row back sat a few more famous people that Ruby said all had contracts with Paramount and had worked with Clara before: two of the Marx Brothers, Bob Hope, and Dorothy Lamour. Next to Dorothy sat a skinny dark-haired girl that I recognized. The girl looked pale and wretched, with heavy circles under her eyes. It was Lillie LaShay, the other half of Clara’s comedy duo.
I had met her before, when I came to Los Angeles to visit Clara. We all ate lunch together at a cafe by the water. The last time Clara switched apartments, she and Lillie became roommates. In fact, I’d have to speak to Lillie about packing up Clara’s belongings.
The thought of that task made me feel sad and tired. But it would be good to speak to Lillie either way—she was close friends with Clara, and as her roommate, she would likely have a good idea of Clara’s activities in the months before her death.
I hadn’t forgotten Hedda Hopper’s assertion that Clara was involved with the gangster Bugsy Siegel. It might be tabloid nonsense, but if there were any truth to it, Lillie would know.
Ruby mentioned a few other actors who would have wanted to come if they weren’t out of the city on various projects.
“It doesn’t matter,” I assured her. “We can’t even fit everyone who came today.”
In a sort of self-organized hierarchy, behind the more famous and important mourners sat the other members of the cast and crew who had known and loved Clara: the camera operators, prop masters, makeup artists, costume designers, screenwriters, and so forth.
Ruby pointed out as many as she could before the service began, but it was difficult for me to keep all their names straight. I knew I’d meet most of them again once filming began, so I simply tried to attune myself to any odd behavior amongst the bunch.
The congregation sang the opening hymn—“All Creatures of Our God and King,” as I’d chosen the day before. It was probably too cheerful for a funeral; a more typical choice would have been something like “Abide with Me,” or “Lead Kindly Light,” but Clara didn’t like anything pious or mournful. The only part of the Bible she ever cared for was the part where God created the animals and Adam named them. Clara loved animals.
Father Brennan got up to speak. I was glad Mr. Campbell recommended him. The priest didn’t take the opportunity to drone on in front of all these famous people, or to try to peddle his religion. Instead he spoke simply and kindly about the joy that Clara had brought to people’s lives, what a great sorrow it was to lose her so soon, and how we should all take her best qualities as an inspiration for ourselves moving forward, so that her spirit and her influence might never die.
Then Mr. Heller got up to speak. He had “requested” that, via Ruby, when she brought the $800 check that morning. Mr. Heller was not as eloquent or as selfless as Father Brennan—he seemed to be speaking primarily for the benefit of the horde of reporters clustered outside the open doors. He assured everyone that though Clara might be gone, Arabian Nights would proceed on schedule, and it would indeed be Clara’s masterpiece, well worth the price of a ticket to see in theaters in the fall.
Mr. Heller looked to Mr. Balaban for a nod of approval, then sat down.
I swallowed hard, because it was my turn.
I didn’t like public speaking. In fact, in the fifth grade I fainted when my teacher made me recite the Pledge of Allegiance at a school assembly.
However, I was determined not to embarrass Clara, wherever she might be.
I took Heller’s place at the podium.
My sister never cared for sentimentality, so I kept my eulogy simple and to the point.
“Clara was the bravest person I ever met,” I said. “She came to Los Angeles with five dollars in her pocket, because she had ambition, determination, and confidence in herself. She was kind—all of you who knew her have, I’m sure, been recipients of that kindness.”
I saw nods of agreement across the audience.
“She was talented—when you saw her on the screen, you couldn’t take your eyes off her. She worked hard—she never would have come to set without her lines memorized, without having practiced a thousand times. She was the best sister I could ever have asked for. She took care of me, all our lives.”
Here I had to pause, to stop my voice from breaking.
I looked down at the casket, which I had asked Mr. Campbell to close, so no one would stare at Clara in the horrible thick makeup intended to cover her swollen, purpled face, and the unflattering, unfashionable high-necked dress that Clara never would have tolerated in life, meant to conceal the ugly ligature marks around her throat.
“I will miss Clara forever,” I said.
I stepped down from the dais and took my seat again. Father Brennan signaled the soloist to sing “Ave Maria,” and the pallbearers rose to carry Clara’s casket to the hearse, where it would be transported to Forest Lawn Cemetery.
As I exited the chapel, I felt a claw-like hand clutch my arm, long lacquered fingernails digging into my flesh. It was Hedda Hopper, the reporter with the eagle feather hat.