Murder among the Stars

by Adam Shankman

  He grabbed Lulu’s hand, and intuitively, she didn’t pull away. Never do anything to upset a crazy person or be prepared to pay the consequences! her mother had told her many times over.

  Paul looked into her eyes, and in one split second, he seemed to harden a bit. “Then again, perhaps you can’t understand. I have to feel and penetrate everything, simply everything about human nature if I’m to be a great writer. My art is my life. Please. Don’t think me a monster. I’m just a writer. That’s all. I didn’t kill anyone.”

  He bent his head over her hand, and she felt the dampness of his tears.

  “I’m sorry,” Lulu whispered soothingly. “I’m so sorry. I was wrong to suspect you.” Still, she shuddered, not absolutely certain he was telling the truth but knowing how important it was to her safety that she defuse the situation. It was hard to imagine that anyone could write with such sickening detail without some direct experience. “I admire your dedication. You are truly a great artist.”

  He looked up at her like a hopeful puppy, his eyes shining. “Then you forgive me?” he asked.

  “Of course,” Lulu assured him.

  “And you won’t tell anyone?”

  She hesitated just a second. I have to tell Freddie, she thought. But she found herself comforting him instead. “No, I won’t tell anyone. Your secret is safe with me.”

  Paul stared up at her, a strange, satisfied look in his reddened eyes. He delicately kissed her hand and rose to his feet. “Well, then,” he said with a smile. “That’s settled.” He began picking up the shards of coffee cup. “Let me clean up this unfortunate mess, and then we can focus on what’s really important: proving that John Emerson is the killer.”

  Eighteen

  Lulu went back to her room to shower and change her clothes. She left the coffee-soaked garments in the hamper, where the maid Ginnie would have them clean by the next morning. Once she was refreshed and in a crisp cream-colored dress, she planned to find Freddie and mend whatever fences needed repair, then explain everything that had happened and try to put all of the clues together into absolute proof. Veronica burst in with her usual bustle and said, “That dress is gorgeous to the Nth degree, but it won’t cut it for the saddle—outside of a photo shoot, of course. And from what I hear of Hearst, he takes his horseback excursions very seriously.” She began to dig through Lulu’s wardrobe. “I’m sure we packed a riding habit in here somewhere. Aha!”

  Lulu rolled her eyes, wondering why she had ever let Veronica and Lolly come up with her utterly fabricated history as a serious equestrian for the press. Even with the countless hours of studio-paid-for lessons, she knew this lie would catch up to her one day, and it seemed that day had arrived. Veronica pulled out a very chic moleskin ensemble. (Lulu had fiercely rejected it until Veronica explained that is was just a soft fabric and not actually made from the pelts of a thousand moles.) The jacket was tailored within an inch of its life, and the jodhpurs ballooned alarmingly before tapering to skintight below her knees. Her riding boots were black leather, soft as butter.

  “But I don’t feel like riding,” Lulu protested.

  “Nobody here feels like riding. But Hearst wants to ride, and so we all must. Now, scoot and get into these clothes. The posse leaves in fifteen minutes.”

  It took Lulu nearly that long to squeeze into her outfit, and she needed Veronica’s help to put on her boots. But once she examined herself in the mirror, she was decidedly pleased with the results. She looked like an action heroine, ready for any kind of adventure. It boosted her confidence immensely.

  Lulu felt oddly buoyant as she left the guesthouse to rendezvous at the stables. The golden California sun warmed her skin as the light played across the fountains and ponds. The air was perfumed with blooming star jasmine and hyacinth. She was intoxicated by the beauty, and her sense of peril melted, giving way to a sense of peaceful euphoria. She could hear people chattering just ahead, heard the whinny and stamp of a virtual cavalry of horses.

  She strode past Joan Crawford barking orders at a stable boy and Ginger Rogers gracefully kicking up to her seat on the spotted Appaloosa she was assigned and plunged into the melee of horses and riders, where she was introduced to her mount.

  “Have you ever ridden?” the groom asked her as he led up a dark bay horse. His coat was such a deep brown it was almost the same color as the black on his mane and tail. He was as glossy as if he’d been rubbed down with Vaseline (which she knew they did to star horses on film), and he tossed his head like he was ready for his close-up.

  Lulu nodded, and the groom looked relieved. “Good! You’re late, and all the swaybacked old nags are taken. This one’s got some mettle, and not everyone can handle him.”

  She looked into the horse’s dark eye. “I think I’ll be fine.”

  She patted the big bay along the jaw and breathed into his velvety nostrils in the way she’d been taught horses say hello. “How are ya, big boy?” she asked in a low, soothing voice. She let her hand trail down his neck and back to his shoulder, to that sensitive spot where mothers nibble their foals, and dug her knuckles in gently. The horse nickered, and the groom laughed.

  “You’re all right, lady,” he said, and gave her a leg up. She needed it. This was the tallest horse she’d ever ridden.

  She turned in her saddle, trying to spot if Paul had joined the group. All of the remaining actresses were there (although some plainly wished they weren’t), as were most of the guests. She didn’t see Paul, though. He’d said he wanted to meet with her later to review the clues, and she assumed he’d join the ride just to do so. Maybe he’d assumed she’d find a way to get out of it and was waiting for her back inside. She muttered a curse under her breath and wondered if it was too late to slip away from what felt like a truly trivial activity that would waste precious sleuthing time. But no, there was Hearst, mounted on a rangy-looking sorrel and wearing full Western kit. Marion, who was usually loyally at his side, was nowhere to be found.

  Anita Loos, diminutive and smart-looking, sidled up to her, riding a dainty, spirited gray that seemed chosen to match her dove-and-pearl-colored habit. “Who are you looking for?” she asked.

  “Marion. Doesn’t she ride?”

  “Oh, Marion does absolutely everything,” Anita said with heavy insinuation. “It’s what endeared her to Hearst in the first place. But she’s kept him by not doing absolutely everything all of the time.”

  “I see,” Lulu answered, though she didn’t quite see. “And what about Mr. Loos—I mean Mr. Emerson!” Her hand flew to her mouth as if she could cram the faux pas back in.

  “Don’t worry. You’re certainly not the first to make that slip. As long as he doesn’t hear it, his ego will survive. Funny, that ego of his. It pretends to be such a delicate little worm of a thing, bruised by the world, but in reality it is a small and deadly serpent, quite capable of looking after itself.”

  Lulu peered intently into Anita’s face. There was something bitter there, she decided, some dark knowledge. Did she suspect that her husband was a murderer? Worse, was it possible that she knew? Lulu decided to corner her on this ride—as well as you could corner anyone in an open mountain range—and probe.

  “You look pretty comfortable on a horse,” Lulu said conversationally. “Do you ride often?”

  “Only when I’m here, these days. I rode more when I was younger.”

  “I just learned a year ago, and I love it.”

  “You might change your mind after this jaunt,” Anita said, leaning sideways over her horse and talking in a low voice. “Hearst’s rides are beyond tedious. He won’t go past a slow trot, but he’ll ride for hours, and keeps everyone lined up like a chain gang.”

  “No open fields? No galloping?” Lulu asked, surprised. “What’s the point of riding if you and the horse can’t let loose?”

  Anita seemed to wholeheartedly agree, and her eyes danced with mischief. “I know these mountains pretty well. What do you say we get lost after a mile or so? There’s a
lovely open dale just off the trail where we can gallop.”

  Lulu smiled. “Perfect,” she said, not just for the fun or riding, but because it had proved so ridiculously easy to get Anita alone. “But won’t we get in trouble with Hearst?”

  Anita raised one sculpted black eyebrow. “Trouble? I could use a little trouble. Why should everyone else have all the fun? Besides, Hearst is a big baby. If he kicks up a fuss about anything, just stick his pacifier in his mouth and he’ll stop bawling.”

  “And what’s his pacifier?”

  Anita’s other eyebrow joined the first. “Why, Marion, of course.”

  Lulu and Anita maneuvered to the back of the long caravan, squinting their eyes against everyone else’s dust until they had an opportune moment to slip away. For a while they let the horses pick their careful and silent way, wary of pursuit. But when no one called after them, they trotted to Anita’s field and with a mutual nod dug in their knees and urged their horses forward.

  Lulu won the impromptu race easily, but Anita, flushed and laughing, didn’t seem to care. She pulled off her little cap and ran her fingers through her dark hair, letting it cascade over her shoulders. It occurred to Lulu that the other actresses would give their eyeteeth to have just a few meaningful moments alone with one of the foremost writers in the country—not to mention one of the people who was choosing an actress for the plum role she’d be writing.

  But all of Lulu’s focus was on the murders, and she felt no interest in charming Anita. All she wanted was information about her prime suspect, Emerson. She brought the topic back around to him as they settled their horses into an easy walk, hoping she sounded natural.

  “So you never said. Does your husband like to ride? I didn’t see him in the group.”

  Anita turned a sharp eye on Lulu. “Do you have designs on him?” she asked point-blank.

  Lulu was startled, and her confusion showed. “No . . . I . . . Gosh no!”

  Anita’s flashing eyes softened just a bit. “Well, then, does he have designs on you?”

  “I certainly hope not!” she said with feeling. If Emerson was indeed the murderer, the last thing she wanted was to be the subject of his creepy attention.

  Anita shrugged and stroked her horse’s mane absently. “A girl like you would be a welcome change, actually,” she said, avoiding Lulu’s eye, staring across the wildflower-strewn field as a brush rabbit bounded in the distance.

  Pay dirt, Lulu thought, and forced herself not to sound anxious as she asked softly, “May I ask why you would say such a thing?” She didn’t know why Anita seemed to be opening up to her, a girl much her junior whom she hardly knew. Maybe she’d simply reached her limit with secrets and had to be honest or burst.

  “Most of his affairs are with horrible ambitious, money-grubbing little tramps with a few obvious assets and nothing at all in their brains. At least you I can talk to.” There was profound sadness and bitter surrender wrapped around each of Anita’s words.

  “You mean you actually have to talk to his . . . his . . .”

  “Sidepieces?” She laughed ruefully. “Of course, my dear. He picks them from our social circle. Well, the bottom tier of our circle, anyway. Or would that be a pyramid? I’ve had half of them to dinner, and I meet the rest at my friends’ parties. It would be better if he settled down with a nice girl like you. With you, at least, I’d probably know what time he’d be home. You’d likely be considerate about that. It’s amazing what little thought mistresses give to wives. Not that most last long enough to count as mistresses. Marion at least shows that being a mistress can be a noble profession. John’s affairs aren’t grand love stories. They’re really just sad little flings.”

  Emerson, Lulu thought, was not a good man. But just because he ran around on his wife didn’t mean that he was a murderer. He had been flirting with Juliette, though, enough to have her lipstick on his collar. And there was the tiepin. . . .

  “How do the flings end?” Lulu asked gingerly.

  Anita waved her hand. “Oh, they just peter out. John’s attention span is pitifully short.”

  “Anita, why are you telling me all this?”

  Anita looked at her evenly. “Because you already knew. Or if you didn’t, you would soon. People talk, or haven’t you noticed? Better to pretend it’s all aboveboard and that I don’t mind one single bit. Why, the word on the street is that I actually give him a day off from his wedding vows once a week. Ain’t I just a dandy wife? Never bitter. So forgiving. Faithful until the very end.”

  “But don’t you hate those other girls?” Lulu asked. Maybe, despite her small stature, Anita had managed to kill Juliette. But she wouldn’t have had anything against Dolores, would she?

  Anita thought a moment. “I suppose I did at first. But I’ve matured. After all, I can’t blame them. John is an exciting man. Very handsome, of course. Arrogant in the most alluring way possible, and girls eat that up, you know. I can see how they all get swept away—at first. Then his little problems emerge, and he doesn’t seem half so fascinating.”

  Lulu was on point like a setter. “Problems?”

  “He’s—well, each doctor we go to has a different name for it. Stress, they say when they want to be kind. But people under stress don’t hear voices, do they? Or have manic fits of rage? When that nonsense starts up, the girls go running, and it’s home to wifey he flies. Come on, enough of this folderol. Our horses have rested. I want to race again!” She urged her swift little horse forward and Lulu’s big stallion had to struggle to catch up with her.

  Lulu had a lot to think about as she galloped. Was Anita implying her husband was a schizophrenic? How ghastly. He certainly didn’t look it, though she didn’t really know what a schizophrenic looked like. She always imagined they wore their illness on their faces, like Lon Chaney in The Phantom of the Opera. Grotesque and deranged. But from what little Anita said, his fits must come and go. Most of the time, John Emerson was a suave seducer, apparently in his right mind. Every now and again, though, he heard voices. Lulu shuddered, and her horse, feeling her odd movement, checked his headlong rush. What did the voices tell him to do? Kill young women?

  Her horse pranced to a stop beside Anita on the far side of the field.

  “Anita,” she asked after another moment’s consideration. “Did you know that your husband and Juliette were . . . flirting before she was killed?”

  Anita just looked off toward the distant ocean. “Oh yes. He’s been after her for quite some time. She didn’t say yes as fast as most. Come to think of it, I have no idea if she ever said yes.”

  “How did you know about the two of them?”

  She laughed, and to Lulu it sounded forced. “John doesn’t keep many secrets from me. Not that he’s free with the details, but he’s far from discreet. A few days before Juliette died I found a rough draft of a letter he was apparently sending her. Ugh, really nauseating stuff! Vowed he’d leave me, pledged his undying love—that kind of hooey.”

  “He must have been distraught when she was murdered,” Lulu said.

  “No, not particularly,” Anita said, turning and looking Lulu dead in the eye. “If anything, he seemed relieved.”

  Nineteen

  Mr. Hearst kept Freddie and Waters laboring fruitlessly in his office until midafternoon. With no new clues and no organic opening to broach the subject of Marion as suspect, the men found themselves poring over the employment records of the current staff, but nothing of note seemed to be pointing in any particular direction. Hearst himself was in and out of the office, disappearing for a while, then quizzing them manically whenever he checked in, never satisfied with any of their theories.

  “That’s enough for now,” he finally said, stacking paperwork and photos of the blackmail letters in a haphazard pile on his already chaotic desk. He waved a dismissal at Freddie’s boss. “Mr. Waters, I’d like you to type out a briefing of your progress so far and forward it to the police both here and in Los Angeles.”

  Freddie a
ssumed he would be joining his boss, but Hearst met his eye and gave him a subtle hand gesture ordering him to stay behind, a gesture that did not go unnoticed by the increasingly paranoid Mr. Waters. Puzzled, Freddie complied.

  Hearst settled back into his chair with an audible oof. He shrugged his hefty shoulders. “I’ve reached the grunting age,” he confessed. “Can’t stand or sit without a groan.”

  “Remember thou art mortal,” Freddie said softly.

  Hearst regarded him with his sharp little eyes. “A quote?” He seemed annoyed to not immediately recognize the source.

  “Shakespeare, via Rome. When the ancient Romans gave someone a triumph—that’s a sort of huge religious parade to honor a military commander who just won a great victory . . .”

  “I know what a triumph is, boy.” The eagle eyes narrowed and turned peevish. “I’ve staged three of ’em in movies.”

  Freddie inclined his head respectfully and went on. “The general became like a god for one day. All of Rome worshipped him, and he was driven through the streets on a chariot, with a man standing behind him holding a crown of laurel leaves above his head. The general wore a purple toga—he was divine. But all through the parade that man standing behind him murmured over and over into his ear, ‘memento mori’—remember that you must die.”

  Hearst regarded Freddie for a long moment. “You’re more educated, and far more depressing, than I’d given you credit for. You do know that I know all about you, young Frederick van der Waals.”

  Freddie stood stock-still, eye contact never wavering, maintaining a totally false air of ease. He couldn’t predict how this conversation would go. Hearst and Freddie’s father, Jacob van der Waals, were not competitors, but he knew that they circled each other in the shark-infested social waters of the obscenely rich. His father was nothing but a common criminal, as far as Freddie was concerned, though he had put presidents in place, funded faraway wars that he profited from, and taken down more than his fair share of high-ranking judges and politicians who crossed him in the process. Who knew how much Hearst knew and what he planned to do with the information.