“What are you doing?” Lillie asked. She stood in the doorway, watching me.
I jumped, dropping the perfume bottle back in the open drawer. Face burning, I looked around for a plausible excuse why I had come into Lillie’s room.
My eyes fixed on the framed photograph next to her bed.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I saw this picture as I was passing, and I was curious.”
Lillie crossed the room to pick it up. “That’s my family,” she said.
She looked at the photograph for a moment, her dark eyes somber. Then she held the frame out to me so I could examine it more closely.
It was a black and white photo, a little faded. It showed a man and a woman, both plain and skinny like Lillie, and a little boy with Lillie’s dark, curly hair. They were all dressed in suits and top hats in the exaggerated proportions common in vaudeville.
“Are they all performers like you?” I asked her.
“They were,” Lillie said. “They were killed twelve years ago. Their train derailed outside Detroit.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said.
I did feel sorry. I could see the sadness in Lillie’s face as she gazed at the photograph. It was as real as her unhappiness as Clara’s funeral.
“It was a long time ago,” Lillie said, setting the picture frame back down again. “The tea is ready.”
I followed her back out to the living room. We sat in matching striped upholstered chairs, a small table between us. The tea set had a pretty blue rose pattern, old fashioned. Lillie made the tea strong and put out thick cold cream, sliced lemon wedges, honey, and sugar, as well as a small plate of cookies.
“Thank you,” I said. “This is very kind.”
Lillie sipped her tea silently. I got the impression that she didn’t speak much unless it was necessary. But I didn’t think Lillie was dull, not at all. The refinement of her home, the books on the shelves and the prints on the walls, all spoke of an intelligent mind.
“Lillie,” I said, “you and Clara were close friends, weren’t you?”
Lillie colored a little and looked down at the teacup in her lap.
“Yes, very close,” she whispered.
“I found her bankbook in her drawer. She had more money than I expected. Do you know why that would be?”
Lillie glanced up sharply.
“I—I’m not sure,” she said. “I did think the same thing, the last month or two. I had to have a tooth out unexpectedly, and she insisted on paying for it. And for drinks and meals too.”
“But you don’t know where the money was coming from?” I asked.
“No.”
“Was it just the better contract with Paramount?”
“It could have been,” Lillie said slowly, “but she’d had that contract a year now. There seemed to be a difference more recently.”
“Could the money have been coming from a man?” I asked.
Lillie flushed again. “What do you mean?”
“I thought she might have a wealthy lover.”
“No. Definitely not.”
“Did she have any boyfriend at all? Had she been seeing anyone?”
“No,” Lillie said, “I’m quite certain she wasn’t.”
“Hedda Hopper said she was dating Bugsy Siegel.”
“What nonsense!” Lillie cried, the tea sloshing over the rim of her cup into the saucer below. “That old witch, she doesn’t know anything. She’s always making things up, trying to cause trouble. Always poking around.”
There were tears in Lillie’s eyes. She looked absolutely furious at the mention of Hedda. I didn’t want to push any further on that angle.
“So you’re certain Clara wasn’t seeing anyone?” I asked gently.
“Yes,” Lillie said. “I saw her every day, I would know.”
“Alright,” I said soothingly. “Thank you, Lillie. As I’m sure you know, I only want to find out what happened to Clara. I intend to find whoever hurt her, if the police don’t do it first.”
“They’re not even looking,” Lillie said bitterly. “They pretend that they are, because she was famous, but you know what they think of actors and Hollywood people in general. They think we’re all wild and likely to come to a bad end one way or another.”
“Well it doesn’t matter what they think,” I said. “We’re the ones who knew Clara, so we’re the ones best suited to find out what happened to her. Will you help me?”
“Yes,” Lillie said, nodding fervently, looking me in the face at last. “I will.”
“You said she didn’t have a boyfriend. What about an admirer? A fan, who maybe was a little too fixated on her?”
Lillie frowned, thinking. “She did get strange letters sometimes,” she admitted.
“From any one person in particular?”
Lillie chewed her bottom lip, trying to remember. “There was this one . . . I can’t remember his name.”
I waited patiently.
“He sent her . . . a box of beetles.”
“Beetles?” I said, in surprise.
“That’s right. She didn’t know what was inside, and when she opened it, they spilled all over her. They were still alive, most of them. She came home and showered for an hour.”
Clara might have loved animals, but she wouldn’t have enjoyed a lap full of beetles, not in the slightest.
“Was the package sent here, or to the studio?”
“All the fan mail goes to Paramount,” Lillie said.
I would have to ask Ruby, then—she might know who had sent the beetles.
“Did the same person send Clara jewelry?” I asked. “Or stockings?”
Lillie frowned, her head tilted to the side.
“What do you mean?” she said.
“I saw earrings in her drawer, and fancy silk stockings. They hadn’t been taken from the box. So I thought maybe they were sent by someone she didn’t like . . .”
“I . . . well . . .” Lillie faltered. “Maybe,” she said, looking down at her tea again.
It was so hard to read her. Sometimes I felt like I could trust her completely, and at other moments, she skittered off in a direction I couldn’t follow.
“I’ve heard of fans doing crazy things,” I said. “I read about the woman who almost shot Shirley Temple . . .”
“The fans aren’t the ones you have to worry about,” Lillie said darkly.
“What do you mean?”
“The ones who prey on you most are the agents, the directors, the producers,” Lillie said, a spark of anger in her dark eyes. “The things they did to Shirley, from the time she was a toddler . . . dressing her up as a burlesque dancer at four years old. Making her dance on a broken foot. Forcing her to work the day after they lanced her eardrum. Those kids are just assets, like anyone else . . .”
She set her tea down on the little table next to her, mostly untouched.
“You know Charles Lamont?” she said.
I nodded. He was a prolific filmmaker who often worked with child stars.
“He keeps this soundproof black box. It’s called the ‘punishment box.’ Six feet long, like a coffin, but taller, with a block of ice at one end. If the children don’t behave how he likes, he locks them in the box. They have to stand there shivering, or else sit on the ice if he’s really wound up. Even Shirley Temple was locked in the box.”