by Tim Ellis
What linked the five film stars? Four were dead, but Theda Bara was still alive. Three had died in mysterious circumstances, but Jean Harlow had died from complications associated with kidney failure. The only connection seemed to be that they were all silent movie stars. Did the killer have a connection to them? How? Maybe that was the connection, but they were still missing a piece of the puzzle.
Katie’s idea of a connection to a similar crime in a municipal park might be that missing piece.
Once he reached the end of the reel, he decided that he’d had enough for one day, switched everything off and made his way out to the library entrance.
Marilyn was busy with a reader, so he waited until she’d finished.
‘Have you finished?’ she said.
‘For today.’
‘What about tomorrow?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Are you working?’
‘In the morning until twelve-thirty.’
‘How would it be if I came in to do some research until you close, and then I take you for a picnic on Santa Monica beach in the afternoon?’
‘I’d like that. I’ll bring the picnic basket.’
‘We have a date then.’
She stretched her hand across the counter.
He smiled, squeezed the hand gently and then made his way outside to catch a cab.
Katie Brazil had saved his life in more ways than one.
***
Frank Page was in his mid-fifties with a neatly-trimmed grey goatee beard, dark-rimmed glasses and a widow’s peak, which was made more noticeable by the fact that he combed his hair back from his forehead and used oil to hold it in place. He wore a checked shirt with a plain red bow tie and exuded a calm, matter-of-fact demeanour.
Sam had taken her for lunch to the Casanova Restaurant on Sunset Boulevard, but she hadn’t really been hungry.
‘This is the woman I was telling you about,’ Sam said when they walked through into Page’s studio, which had matt black painted walls and black and white portraits of movie stars hanging on them.
Frank walked around her as if he was examining an exhibit on a plinth in an art gallery. ‘Not bad.’ He lifted her chin up with his fingers and looked at her neck. ‘How old are you, Katie?’
‘Twenty-four. Twenty-five on March 3.’
‘Mmmm! A bit older than we normally like. Has she got a head on her shoulders, Sam?’
‘Yes, I have,’ Katie answered. ‘I have a Bachelor’s degree in History from Minnesota State University Moorhead. I’ve been teaching in Elementary School for the past five years. And if you want to know anything else about me, I suggest you ask me and not Sam.’
‘She’s a bit touchy, isn’t she?’
The corner of Sam’s mouth creased upwards. ‘She’ll get used to it, Frank.’
The photographer nodded. ‘As they all do, or fall by the wayside.’ He scooped her hair back to look at her ears, long neck and profile. Then signalled to a woman who was sitting in shadow on the other side of the studio. ‘This is my make-up and hair artist – Lilly Carter.’
An unattractive middle-aged woman with dark bags under her eyes, dirty-brown shoulder-length hair, round shoulders and wearing an unflattering frock offered a glimmer of a smile as she approached.
‘Hello, Lilly,’ Katie said.
‘Hello, Katie.’
Frank stood in front of Katie and said, ‘You have the look of Gene Tierney, especially around the eyes. Is there some Irish in there somewhere?’
‘I expect so. My surname is Irish.’
‘Okay. Your figure and your other features remind me of Ava Gardner.’ He looked at Sam. ‘Yes, I think you might have something here, Sam.’
‘That’s what I thought when I first saw her.’
‘Can she act?’
‘We’ve just come from the screen test. It was passable. As you know, the studios are more interested in looks rather than acting ability.’
‘Well, let’s see if we can’t enhance those looks and give her a leg up.’ He stared at Katie.
She felt self-conscious with Frank, Sam and Lilly all staring at her as if she was a side of beef.
‘I’m sure Sam has told you that a photographic portfolio lets him quickly put your face in front of casting directors when they’re looking for someone to cast in a specific role?’
‘Yes.’
‘Without a portfolio you’d be unlikely to land an audition. It’d all come down to a passable screen test and a slice of luck, and to be honest luck is no way to get into the movie business, is it?’
‘No.’
‘You have no acting experience?’
‘No.’
‘No acting-related training?’
‘No.’
‘No special skills such as dialects, languages, horse-riding or rifle shooting?’
‘No.’
‘So, all you have is a passable screen test?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mmmm! Then I suppose we’d better make sure there’s some depth to your portfolio, hadn’t we?’
‘I guess so.’
‘I’ll do about four or five headshots, and maybe some full-length shots to emphasise your figure.’
‘I’m not taking my clothes off.’
He glanced at Sam and the shadow of a smile crossed his face. ‘This is not a pornographic studio, Katie.’
‘Okay.’
‘Maybe we’ll dispense with the full-length shots. We wouldn’t want you to feel uncomfortable, would we?’ He winked at Sam. ‘What type of actor are you?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘No. Without any acting experience I don’t suppose you would know. Do you see yourself as funny and witty?’
‘I can be, but that’s not the kind of person I am.’
‘Are you quirky and awkward?’
‘No.’
‘What about shy, silent and neurotic?’
‘No.’
‘Are you serious and straight?’
‘Yes, I suppose I am most of the time.’
‘It’s important to know, because you wouldn’t want directors to cast you in a slapstick comedy if that’s not who you are. Once you’ve been typecast, it’s difficult to find work playing other characters.’ He walked around her again. ‘In which case, we’ll focus the portfolio on a character type, so that there’s no confusion about what type of actress you are.’ He looked at Sam. ‘That all right with you, Sam?’
‘Definitely. I don’t picture her in a slapstick comedy either – that figure would be wasted.’
‘I agree. After I’ve taken a couple of natural headshots of you smiling, and then being serious and intense, I think we should limit it to four different character types – the damsel in distress; the doomed woman; the desirable and naïve young woman; and the lover. Is that all right for you, Katie?’
‘I’m sure you know what’s best, Frank.’
‘Yes, I do. I’ve been in this game for a good few years and people seem to agree that I know what I’m talking about. Photography – especially portrait photography – is a combination of make-up, styling, lighting and camera. Under my direction, Lilly is responsible for the make-up and styling, and I’m responsible for the lighting and camera.’
‘Okay.’
‘I’m going to hand you over to Lilly now, while I set up the lighting and the camera.’ He turned to Lilly. ‘Her medium-length dark hair will frame her face, so I’d like you to style it in a softly curled bob . . .’
Katie took an involuntary intake of breath.
Frank and Lilly looked at her.
‘Sorry. My mother used to have her hair in a curled bob when she was alive.’ It was a little white lie. Her mother didn’t bother too much about her own hair. As a farmer’s wife, she tended to keep it out of the way tied up in a ponytail with a piece of worn fabric. Annie though, had been found dead with her hair coiffured in a curled bob, and her sister never wore her hair like that.
‘I’m sorry to hear about your mot
her, but think of it as honouring her memory. There’s no getting away from the fact that you look like Ava Gardner. We don’t want to make you into a copy of Gardner, but it wouldn’t hurt if casting directors could see the resemblance. It might even get you work as her stand-in if all else fails.’
Lilly nodded.
‘I’d like the eyes made larger and well-defined; the cheek bones and jaw line sculpted and chiselled. I plan to use the hard light to narrow her face, which will fall away around the sides and give her a more slender look. Are you all right with that, Lilly?’
‘Yes, Frank.’
‘I’ll see you when you get back, Katie.’
‘All right.’ She followed Lilly into a make-up room with a mirror surrounded by lights.
‘Make yourself comfortable, Katie.’
She sat down in the comfortable chair and stared at herself in the mirror. Was she doing the right thing? Would she even come across the killer? What if she was wasting valuable time playacting when the killer had already chosen his next victim?
Lilly covered her body and shoulders with a sheet and tied it off at the back of her neck. ‘Ready?’
‘Ready.’
***
In Borrego Springs, before the war, he’d purchased a black 1940 Mercury Convertible to get about, but then put it into storage when he’d joined the Marines and shipped out. After the war, he’d had the car transported to Los Angeles and, because he’d been using a police car, he’d put the Mercury into storage again.
Now, if he was taking Marilyn to the beach and probably other places as well, then his salary wouldn’t stretch very far if he was taking a cab everywhere, so he needed to get the Mercury out of storage.
The storage company was called Torrance Self Storage, and he paid five dollars a month out of his salary for them to look after the Mercury. If he was being honest, he’d forgotten all about the car and the money coming out of his salary. Had they been getting their money? Did he still have a car? Or was it like his apartment, telephone and utility bills – unpaid for the past six months? Maybe they’d sold the car to recoup the unpaid amount.
He paid the cabbie and made his way into the office.
There was a woman in her early forties with dark hair, a frayed dress and no make-up on sitting behind a desk. ‘Hello. Can I help you?’
‘I’m hopeful you can. I’ve come for my car.’ He took out his wallet and showed her the dog-eared card he’d been given when he’d first put it into storage.
She opened a steel filing cabinet and found his file. ‘Mmmm! We’ve sent you three letters in each of the past three months, which have gone unanswered.’
‘I’ve been ill.’
‘Yeah, you don’t look so good.’
‘I’m on the mend. What did the letters say?’
‘You owe us money.’
‘How much?’
‘Three months storage fees, plus twenty dollars for administrative costs.’
‘Twenty dollars?’
‘Writing and sending out letters costs us time and money. All in all, you owe us thirty-five bucks, Mister Urban.’
‘Detective Urban.’
‘It doesn’t matter what you call yourself, you still owe us thirty-five bucks.’
‘You haven’t sold my car then?’
‘Another month . . . It would have been too late then.’
‘I haven’t got thirty-five bucks on me. In fact, I don’t have thirty-five bucks in the bank either.’
She closed his file, put it back where she’d got it from and said, ‘No money, no car. You have seven days to pay us the outstanding amount, or we’ll sell your car to recoup our money.’
‘Can you do that?’
‘You should read your contract, Mister Urban.’
‘I need my car.’
‘We need our money.’
‘Are you in charge?’
‘I am today.’
‘No, I mean, is there someone I can talk to?’
‘You’re talking to me.’
‘Can you authorise an extension?’
‘We’re not a bank.’
‘And yet you’re going to foreclose on my car. I’d like to talk to your supervisor.’
‘That’ll be the owner – Larry.’
‘Larry?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, can I talk to him?’
‘And say what?’
‘I’m a police detective.’
‘Are you going to threaten him?’
‘No. I just want my car and an extension to pay the outstanding amount. I’m back at work next week, so I’ll be paid my full pay check at the end of February. I could pay then.’
‘Another month?’
‘Yes.’
‘The amount will be forty-five bucks by then.’
‘Well, maybe it’ll take two months to pay the outstanding amount off.’
‘Each month you’re outstanding, it’ll cost you more.’
‘I understand that.’
‘You’re not dying, are you?’
‘No, I’m getting better. You can trust me – I’m a police officer.’
‘Police officers aren’t normally trustworthy.’
‘I am. Honestly, I’m good for the money.’
She took out his file again. ‘Are you still at the same address?’
‘Yes and no. I’m still at George Washington Heights, but I’m living in apartment 5A now.’
‘You should have notified us when your address changed.’
‘I’m notifying you now. It’s only changed recently.’
‘And you’ll pay the complete outstanding amount definitely by the end of March?’
‘Yes.’
She chewed the end of a pencil and stared at him. ‘I must be going soft in the head, but I’m going to take a chance on you, Mister Urban.’
‘You won’t regret it.’
‘I certainly hope not, because if you’re not here on March 1 paying me what you can of the outstanding amount, then I’ll send some people in the middle of the night to take your car.’
‘I understand, but I’ll be here.’
‘Take a seat. I’m going to type up an agreement for you to sign.’
‘Okay. Thank you. Is Larry not coming now?’
‘Larry’s my good-for-nothing useless husband. He does what I tell him.’
He nodded, sat down in one of the three chairs in front of her desk and waited.
‘How’s my car been?’
‘Been? It’s a car.’
‘I mean, does it still work?’
‘This is a storage facility for cars, not a care home. We drive it in, park it up, cover it over and it stays like that until you want to come and collect it. We don’t serve them hot chocolate and tuck them in each night.’
‘I just wondered . . .’
‘You’re not the longest, you know.’
‘I’m not?’
‘No, not even close. We had a 1931 Packard Eight for twelve years.’
‘Did it still start after all that time?’
‘No.’
‘That’s what I was wondering.’
She pushed the paper towards him. ‘Sign.’
He read what he’d agreed to, signed and dated it.
‘Good.’ She slipped the agreement in his file, put the file back in the cabinet, retrieved his car key from a safe and dialled a number. ‘Get over here . . . A man needs his car . . . You lazy bastard. If you’re not here in five minutes you can look for somewhere else to live.’ She slammed the telephone down.
‘Larry?’ he guessed.
‘I don’t know why I put up with him.’
After seven minutes an unshaven man wearing creased slacks and a dirty grey vest appeared. ‘I was working, Ethel.’
‘Working!’ Ethel let out a disbelieving laugh. ‘You wouldn’t know what work was if it stood in front of you and kicked you in the coconuts.’ She held out the key. ‘Here. Third basement level, fourth bay along – a black Mercury Conv
ertible with the licence plate 1M 55 71. Try not to break anything.’
Larry took the keys off his wife. ‘Follow me, Mister.’ He led Erik through a door, along a corridor to an elevator and they descended three floors. ‘You married?’
‘No.’
‘You want to stay that way, fella. Believe me, the sex soon dries up and then what’s left? She can’t cook, she’s not pleasant to look at or speak to . . . It’s a living hell.’
‘Any children?’
‘Nope. She’s as barren as the Mojave Desert.’
They reached the car.
Larry pulled the canvas cover off and passed Erik the keys. ‘All yours.’
He unlocked the door, slid into the driver’s seat and turned the key in the ignition.
The engine coughed and spluttered. He tried again, it caught and died.
‘Third time lucky?’ Larry suggested.
He turned the key and the engine caught this time.
‘How long’s she been sitting here?’
‘Two and a half years.’
He clicked his tongue. ‘We had a Packard Eight . . .’
‘Your wife said.’
‘Yeah, she would.’
‘Which way is out?’
‘You want the car elevator. Reverse up, swing her round and follow me.’
He was a bit rusty, hadn’t driven in over six months, but he soon remembered as he reached the elevator and drove inside.
Larry stepped inside, pressed the button for the ground floor and said through the open window, ‘Remember what I said, fella – don’t get married. The worst thing a man can do is get married. In my experience, it always ends in disaster. You only have to read the newspapers to realise that.’
‘Thanks for the free advice, Larry.’
‘If I can prevent others making the same mistake as me, then my misery hasn’t all been in vain.’
He waved at Larry as he drove out of the elevator, into the road and headed the short distance to the apartment block.
Chapter Fourteen
Lilly had coiffured her hair into a curled bob, made her eyes appear larger by brightening the dark circles and the waterline inside the lower lid; contouring the creases; highlighting the inner corners; curling her long lashes; shaping the brows and brushing them upwards. She’d also applied make-up and made sure her face was glowing and had all the right contours and angles. Lilly clearly knew what she was doing.
