City of Myths

by Martin Turnbull

  “I’d like to go to the veterans’ hospital on Wilshire.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Quite.”

  Kathryn headed south toward the military hospital set among sprawling grounds on the approach to Santa Monica.

  A week or two after Kathryn’s confrontation with Voss at LA County had come the announcement that he was being transferred for “an extended recuperation.” Although how a coward like Sheldon Voss had managed to get into a military hospital was a mystery. It was enough for Kathryn to know that Francine wanted to face her brother. Regardless of what happened, being a witness to that was worth whatever fallout might result.

  The visitors’ parking lot was surprisingly small, but Kathryn found an open space and pulled into it. As Francine reached for the car door handle, Kathryn stopped her with a nip to the elbow.

  The afternoon sun shone onto Francine’s face, revealing that she looked paler now than back at Moulin Rouge. Kathryn wanted to reach over and swipe away the line of sweat following the contours of Francine’s hairline, but thought the better of it. “Do you have a plan?”

  Francine shook her head. “I don’t believe this amnesia story any more than you do, so I don’t expect to get a confession out of him. But I want to see that miserable son-of-a-bitch squirm when he sees me. And if I can get close enough to give him a piece of my mind, all the better.”

  “You did pretty well for yourself that night in MacArthur Park.”

  “I spent the next week thinking of what I wished I’d said. If I can get one or two out today, I’ll walk away satisfied.”

  Kathryn had assumed that Voss would be locked away in the same sort of cell he’d occupied at LA County, but the cheery volunteer with the Joan Blondell face told them that they’d find him in the recreation room at the end of the hall.

  It was two stories tall with windows on three sides that opened out to the summery air. A light breeze wafted across residents scattered around club chairs and card tables, reading or chatting or playing board games.

  Voss sat by himself, his chin propped on the palm of his right hand and his gaze fixed blankly on the lawns outside.

  Kathryn and Francine started walking toward him.

  “He’s a sitting duck.” Francine murmured.

  Kathryn let out a yip of a laugh. Voss visibly stiffened. He turned the jerky movement into a stretch and yawn. Pretending not to have seen them, he rose from his chair.

  The Joan Blondell nurse called out to him. “Not so fast!” She sounded more like a kindergarten teacher. “This is your sister, Mr. Voss. Remember what the doctor said? Regain your memory and you regain your life. You never know which face or voice or perhaps even a smell will bring it back.”

  A muttering groundswell rolled through the place. Since the display ads using Harlan McNamara’s photos had started appearing in newspapers and magazines across the country, Kathryn was being recognized in new sorts of places: the supermarket, the library, the beach. And now convalescent wards, apparently.

  She tapped the nurse on her shoulder. “Perhaps we could move to somewhere more private?”

  Voss opened his mouth to protest but the nurse ignored him. “The rose garden pergola.” She pointed to French doors opening out onto a slate path that followed the slope of the lawn, then disappeared into a grove of acorn trees.

  Kathryn didn’t need to look around the room to know that all eyes were on them. She appropriated Voss’s elbow, but he yanked it away. Francine walked ahead and opened the glass door. “We’ll have a lovely visit—you’ll see.”

  With Francine on one side and Kathryn on the other, Voss said nothing as they trudged along the path. It swerved right at the acorn trees, revealing a pergola covered in roses intertwined with ivy. Surrounded by a semicircle of hedges, it stood on a slight rise to catch the coastal breezes.

  “I want to go back inside,” Voss said.

  “But fresh air is so healthful!” Kathryn prodded him toward the pergola, where three separate benches provided seating for six. Overhead, the ivy and roses offered rare tranquility, a reprieve from the commotion of the sprawling city surrounding them. Kathryn, Francine, and Voss each took a bench.

  “It’s okay, Uncle Sheldon,” Kathryn taunted, “nobody can hear you. There’s nothing to give you away.”

  “I don’t know who you think you are or what you think you’re going to accomplish, but you’ll get nothing out of me.”

  “Why?” Kathryn pushed. “Because you can’t remember?”

  “For all I know, you might be wearing a wire.”

  Only because it hadn’t occurred to me. “Why would you be worried if you had nothing to hide?”

  “I’ve been hounded by every two-bit shyster in this town who wants to get their greedy paws on my—” He folded one leg over another and hunkered down into a ball. “When you don’t know anybody, you learn to trust nobody.”

  “For crying out loud!” Kathryn barked. “The only people who know the real you are sitting right here, so cut the crap and drop the act.”

  “I don’t know what act you are referring to—”

  “The one that came to an end when you gave me the finger at LA County General.” Kathryn watched a wall rise in Voss’s eyes. “Look,” she said, softening her tone, “I don’t care if you’ve got millions stashed away, or secrets you’re holding over someone, or whatever monkey business you’re up to with this amnesia gambit of yours. All I care about is Thomas Danford.”

  “EXACTLY!” Francine’s roar startled nearby magpies to flight. “How could you?! I loved Thomas with all my heart.” She was on her feet now, her hands tightened into fists, and her black Sunday hat slanted to the left. “We would’ve figured a way out of our predicament, but no! Mister Savior had to charge in like he’s Mister Fix-Everything. You stuck your beak in where it wasn’t invited, wasn’t welcome, and wasn’t needed.”

  Voss stayed glued to his wooden bench, even as Francine stood over him with her arms flung out wide.

  “It wasn’t your life to dictate! I could’ve spent the last forty years with the man I loved, but that ceased to be an option the minute you jumped on your high horse. That was bad enough, but then you set yourself up as some phony-baloney preacher. You and your Sea to Shining Sea March, your redemption boards, and your Quarter Cans. What a load of manure. And now you’re trying to squirm out of it by playing the amnesia victim? Well, screw you, Sheldon Voss. You ain’t nothing but the worst kind of swindler. I’m ashamed and disgusted to be related to you.”

  Francine started rolling her jaw. Look at her! Kathryn thought. She’s working up a wad to spit on him. She jumped to her feet and joined her mother. “Nothing gave me greater pleasure than to see that resentful look on your face as you handed over your Quarter Cans to those Negroes.”

  Voss was on his feet now, slowly circling them like a jackal. He jabbed a finger at Francine. “I saved you from a marriage born of obligation that would have been lived in misery and despair.”

  “So now you’re a fortune-teller?” Francine bit back.

  “You were a plaything to satisfy his lust. He would never have done right by you.”

  “He most cert—”

  “The Danfords think themselves far too la-di-dah to accept some stray member of the rabble into their midst. You were just too naïve to realize it.”

  “It wasn’t your call to make,” Kathryn said. “Thomas Danford—”

  Voss wheeled around, his eyes blazing with scorn. “Your precious Daddy Danford couldn’t keep his lust in his pants for two goddamned minutes, so what kind of father would he have been?”

  “You’re one to talk,” Kathryn scoffed, “cheating widows and embezzling factory workers. But you outdid yourself when you framed my father.”

  Francine gave out a little gasp. “He what?”

  Even with that article from Look magazine, Kathryn knew the evidence she’d gathered was circumstantial at best. Why put Francine through the wringer when she wasn’t sure of the fa
cts? But it was a moot point now that she’d blurted out everything.

  “Sorry to keep you in the dark,” Kathryn told her mother, “but I wanted more evidence. That night at MacArthur Park, this little worm admitted to me that he framed Thomas Danford.”

  “I admitted no such thing!” he hissed. “All I said was that I waited years to exact my revenge. You were the one throwing around accusations that I framed Danford. You’re going to have to do a damn sight better than Look magazine—”

  “What Look magazine?” Francine’s voice trembled but Kathryn couldn’t pull her eyes away from Voss’s odious sneer.

  “I’ll show you later.” Kathryn stepped in front of Francine and faced Voss. “I’m still collecting evidence, but when I have enough, I’ll come after you. And you know what? I wish I’d thought to wear a wire because everybody who’s so concerned about your welfare should be hearing this.”

  “But you’re not wearing a wire, are you?” Voss’s sangfroid was unnerving.

  “Listen, you heinous prick—”

  “Kathryn? Kathryn?”

  Francine’s hand pressed against Kathryn’s shoulder blade, then trailed down her back. Kathryn reached out as Francine clutched her chest, but her arms escaped her grasp as she staggered backward, hit her head against one of the benches, and collapsed onto the concrete.

  “Mom! MOM!”

  Kathryn gently rolled Francine onto her back, tucking her handbag under her head. “What’s happening? Are you in pain?” Francine’s only response was to stare up at her daughter, straining for breath in ragged gasps. “Is it your heart? Are you having a heart attack?”

  Francine nodded weakly.

  “GO GET HELP!” Kathryn shouted at Voss. “NOW!”

  He cannonballed out of the pergola.

  Francine’s eyes lost their focus.

  “Hang on, Mom. We’re at a hospital. There are doctors. Lots of them. They’re only seconds away. Stay with me.” She sucked in a lungful of air. “Keep breathing. Like this. In . . . out . . . in . . . out . . .”

  Where did he go? What’s taking so long?

  Francine started to open and close her mouth like a goldfish panting for air. In between each pant, she slurred in guttural whispers. “I . . . did it . . . all for you. Everything . . . for you.”

  “Mom! Please! Not now. Save your strength.”

  “Never . . . showed it . . .” Her breath was hot and damp. “. . . like I . . . should’ve.”

  Kathryn squeezed her eyes tightly shut, willing herself not to fall apart. She wrapped her arm around Francine’s shoulder and cradled her to her chest.

  “So proud. So proud.” Francine sprang up into a half-sitting position, unleashed a low groan that sounded like she’d summoned it from the depth of her soul, then fell heavily to the ground, pulling Kathryn down with her.

  CHAPTER 25

  The dark magenta lace looked better on Bella Darvi than Gwendolyn expected. “Not many people can get away with that color, but you can.”

  Bella turned side on to the mirror to check her silhouette. “I know.”

  There was no irony in her comment. There never was.

  This was now the eighth day into a three-week assignment to guide Bella through wardrobe fittings in preparation for a crammed schedule of interviews centered around the premiere of The Egyptian.

  The word around town was that Zanuck had a $4-million turkey on his hands. To his credit, he charged full steam ahead, building up Bella Darvi with an expensive wardrobe for the American openings and the Rome premiere.

  In other words, Gwendolyn wrote to Marcus, I’m a glorified babysitter.

  And she wouldn’t have minded so much but this woman was a walking iceberg who didn’t seem to care about anything. No matter what Gwendolyn suggested, the girl would shrug as though to say, If you like.

  Don’t you think an extra-thick belt would define this ensemble? Shrug.

  What about a bow here? Shrug.

  Autumn orange or butterscotch yellow? Shrug.

  So when Gwendolyn showed Bella her sketches for a cocktail dress to wear to her Rome press conference and Bella said, “Magenta will work, but make sure it’s dark,” Gwendolyn shot over to Kathryn’s villa. “I think she might be starting to trust me!”

  Kathryn responded, “It’s time I interviewed this Polish man-eater. Can you help set it up?”

  It was the first sign of the old Kathryn since Francine’s passing.

  For twenty years, Gwendolyn had watched Kathryn and Francine clash with jabs and put-downs, exchanging verbal right hooks and reaching uneasy détentes that quickly withered. But it had all changed when Kathryn cradled her mother in her arms and watched her life ebb away. Francine was gone before help arrived, and in the days that followed, the life seemed to drain out of Kathryn, too.

  Ever since the funeral, she lingered in bed until noon. Food went uneaten, clothes went unwashed, letters went unanswered. Even her column had to be ghostwritten by Mike Connolly, who stepped up when Kathryn couldn’t think of committing thoughts to paper.

  Gwendolyn did whatever she could: cooked up a pot of chicken soup and dropped it off with poppy-seed bagels; took bundles to the Chinese laundry; listened to Kathryn catalog her regrets and self-recriminations; and advised Leo to sit it out when he admitted feeling useless in the face of Kathryn’s overwhelming grief.

  “Do you want to wear this for when Kathryn arrives?” Gwendolyn asked Bella.

  “Who?”

  “Kathryn Massey. From the Hollywood Reporter. It’s nearly eleven o’clock, so if you want to change—”

  “No.” Bella pressed a hand against her three petticoats and observed how they bounced back into position. “This dress. That dress. It doesn’t matter.”

  “It’s a knockout!”

  Kathryn passed a knot of seamstresses stitching beads onto a complicated Elizabethan gown destined for Bette Davis. Half a dozen steps in and Gwendolyn knew that Kathryn was tipsier than a lady should be when she’s about to interview the mistress of a studio boss who had the power to rescue Marcus with a phone call.

  Gwendolyn met her halfway and inhaled deeply, expecting a whiff of brandy or sherry, but smelled only the scent of fresh Chinese laundry.

  Ah, so it’s vodka.

  “Kathryn Massey from the Hollywood Reporter.” She thrust out her hand; Bella shook it limply. “You must be the gal who half of Hollywood’s talking about. I’m referring to the male half, of course. Goodness gracious, look at you. No wonder Zanuck is—”

  “Take a seat!” Gwendolyn pointed to a stool parked at her work counter.

  Kathryn did as she was told. “You’re about to make the sort of splash that beautiful girls like you swarm to Hollywood for. You must feel lucky to be the one that Zanuck plucked from obscurity.”

  If the Polish Iceberg caught Kathryn’s innuendo, it didn’t show. “I suppose.”

  “You sound like you don’t care whether or not your Hollywood film career takes off.”

  “If the American public like me, I will be cast in another movie and another until they tire of me. If not . . .”

  Bella’s composed almond eyes opened wider and wider.

  “Am I interrupting?”

  Marilyn Monroe stood in the doorway wearing the cream dress Billy Travilla had designed for her current picture. With a snug halter neck that held her breasts in place, a tight bodice tied together into a bow, and a voluminous skirt, it was one of Marilyn’s most flattering screen costumes.

  Earlier that month, she and Billy Wilder had traveled to New York and filmed a scene from The Seven Year Itch on Lexington Avenue in which Marilyn stood over a subway vent and let the updraft blow this dress above her waist. Wilder planned to film the real scene on a soundstage at Fox so the whole spectacle was an elaborate publicity stunt, but nobody had told the hundreds of gawkers who’d packed the sidewalks.

  One of them had been Walter Winchell, who’d called Joe DiMaggio and egged him into going to see the spectacle for himse
lf, knowing that DiMaggio would kick up a terrible stink. The sap had stormed across the set as Marilyn stood over the vent for a shot that wouldn’t make the final cut but might end her marriage.

  “Marilyn!” Gwendolyn rose to her feet. “What are you doing here?” And in that dress.

  Marilyn stepped forward. “Something’s scraping my back. I don’t know what but it sure is annoying.”

  “You’re reshooting the subway scene today?” Kathryn asked.

  If Kathryn had been a teensy bit more sober she would have realized that Marilyn wasn’t in full makeup.

  “They’re still building the set. When we were in New York, my shoulder blades got all scratched up so it needs fixing.”

  “Does Billy know you’re wearing that?” Gwendolyn asked.

  “Travilla or Wilder?”

  “Both.”

  Travilla had toiled forever over endless variations until Wilder was satisfied. The final version was currently the most famous dress in America—and not what Marilyn should have been wearing as she wandered the studio.

  Marilyn turned to Bella. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “I am Bella Darvi.”

  Marilyn brushed a nonexistent lock of hair from her clear blue eyes. “The one who stole Nefer out from under me?”

  For months, Marilyn had lobbied Zanuck for the part of the Babylonian courtesan in The Egyptian. After he’d cast Bella, Marilyn dropped by Gwendolyn’s place to unload her disappointment. It had taken Gwendolyn two full bottles of Dom Perignon to convince Marilyn that she couldn’t expect to win every role. And now, six months later, There’s No Business Like Show Business was set to do boffo box office and The Egyptian was shaping up to be dead on arrival.

  Marilyn toyed with a stray white button sitting on the worktable. She set it on its edge and sent it spinning with a flick of her finger. She was no longer wearing her wedding ring.

  “I did not steal your role,” Bella said flatly. “If I had known, I would have said to Darryl, ‘If Monroe wants Nefer so badly, give it to her.’”

  “So it’s ‘Darryl,’ huh?” Kathryn said under her breath.