by Diane Capri
Late one balmy evening, unable to sleep, she went out onto the deck. From there she caught a glimpse of a flashlight beam moving around in the sunroom, the only room in the house next door where the drapes now remained open around the clock. She called the police and reported a possible break-in and burglary. A police cruiser responded within twenty minutes but found no sign of an intruder. If the person with the flashlight had returned in the subsequent days, he was careful to keep his nighttime roaming a secret from prying eyes.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Star Tattler — January 1942 [Archive]
Sources report the estranged mother of sixteen-year-old Sybil Squire was forcefully escorted off the RKO lot yesterday after causing a scene outside of the actress’s dressing room. Annamaria Robles, drunk, cursing, and destroying props on Stage 54, threatened to kill herself if she couldn’t talk to her daughter. “I don’t have a mother,” Miss Squire told our source.
—Cricket Summers: Columnist to the Stars
Sunlight spilled across the floor of the commissary at the Warner Brothers Studio and highlighted a tall purple floral arrangement nearby. The shiny black of the lacquered chairs contrasted sharply with the white tablecloths and the overall pale cream of the interior. Understated elegance. Piper felt more comfortable in the cafeteria commissary, the one for the not-so-famous, but this was part of her turf, her old stomping grounds when she’d edited films for WB. Before she married Gordon. Her turf again, at least for the next couple of weeks. Sandy Goodmore, an editor friend at the studio, agreed to let her assist on a horror film she was cutting. It was like an internship, wages at scale, yet it gave her a chance to jump back in, hands-on.
Lee had invited her to lunch. On the lot with paperwork, Lee had signed an A-List actress making the move up with an Academy win. Lee finessed her own win. She couldn’t go two paces without being greeted. Everyone knew her, or knew of her. Despite her gender change, which had tongues wagging for two seasons back, she’d made her mark with killer instincts, sharp business tactics, and superb people skills. With all the schmoozing and constant bullshitting, she rarely got down more than three bites during a meal. Her cell phone never stopped ringing, beeping, or vibrating, linked to a half dozen neurotic and often hysterical clients.
Lee took a long drink from her iced tea. Piper watched her Adam’s apple bob with each gulp. It was the one thing Lee couldn’t do anything about, her prominent Adam’s apple. Yet she didn’t seem bothered by it. In fact, she displayed it like a badge of honor with open necklines and no scarves or jewelry. Was it a last testament to a previous life? To Leroy?
“He’s such a dick,” Lee said, referring to Gordon. “He was always a dick.”
“Unlike you,” Piper said, not unkindly.
“I was a dick when I had a dick. Now, according to my enemies, and some whiny producers, I’m a big C. And proud of it.” She chewed a piece of ice. “I told you, I warned you, that Gordon was a control freak before you married him.”
“And I’m supposed to listen to my ex-husband bash my future husband?”
“Why the hell not? We parted friends. You know what a good judge of character I am. I chose you, didn’t I?”
“That only proves you have good taste.”
She smiled. “Has the Gorgon tried to contact you in any way?”
“Nothing. I thought I’d hear from him after the papers were served, but not a word.” Piper lowered her voice. “There’s been a car cruising my neighborhood since I moved in there. Odd hours of the day and night. Tinted windows. Belle never saw it before I moved in. You think he’s having me watched?”
“I wouldn’t put anything past him. He’s a sore loser and a grudge holder. Like I said, he’s a dick.”
A waiter in white set down their orders, two swordfish sandwiches. Lee asked for extra mayo.
The comedy sitcom star, Ted Truman, stopped to pay tribute to Lee. Although she rarely represented television actors, there was always the exception. If she consented to take on a TV personality, it was to launch him or her into major motion pictures. Her clientele list was small, but impressive. It included Oscar winners and a few Emmy winners. Lee wasted no time on small-scale actors and politely dismissed the comedian after assuring him he was bound to be nominated for an Emmy next time around. He returned to his table grinning like a delirious chimp beneath his bearded face.
“That one has potential,” Lee said, looking after him. “But he’s too high-maintenance. A babysitter for TV talent, I’m not.”
Throughout their meal, they talked about the biz, the new crop of young executives, the wannabes infesting the industry, and those struggling to stay on top and those on the way out. Lee waved at George Clooney who sat at the table next to them. Lee and Piper briefly chatted with several studio execs, dinosaurs at Warner Brothers, who had stopped at their table on their way to a major meeting.
Gary Ott, the director who gave Piper her first big break, left his table to come to theirs. He held her hand, made a fuss over seeing her, and asked if she was back in the saddle. She took that to mean back to work in film editing. “I’m back.” He told her he might have a project for her if she was interested. “I’m very interested,” she said. He kissed her temple, a real kiss that made contact, not the airy kind, and then returned to his table and the young gum-chewing starlet who gazed at him with adoration and hope.
“Look out,” Lee said. “‘Back in the saddle’ to that horndog can mean a number of things. All sexually related.”
“I’m too old for him. He only likes to bang starlets. Young ones. Impressionable ones. Nothing impresses me these days. So how’s your love life?”
Lee rolled her eyes. “Erica and I are going through a rough patch. We’re far enough into the relationship to start screwing with each other’s heads. She knows she’s more than just a piece of ass, so she wants to mess with me, try to break my balls whenever she can.”
“What balls?”
“The quasi balls. The ones up here.” Lee touched a fingertip to her temple. “The ones she knows I’ll always have because she has them too.”
Erica was a transsexual Lee had met in group therapy six months earlier.
“You’re perfect for each other, why can’t you two get along?”
“Just because we’re both male-to-female transsexuals doesn’t mean we’re perfect for each other. Erica is high risk,” Lee said, tucking a strand of shiny hair behind her ear with a perfectly manicured nail. “She’s bisexual, you know. Not that that bothers me—her sexuality—it’s the damn relationships she gets herself into. Jesus, the last one was right out of The Crying Game. The guy didn’t know she was TS until … well … you know? She spent three days in the hospital after that gross error in judgment.”
“Speaking of hospitals, Sybil’s still in that private clinic and she isn’t taking phone calls or visitors. She doesn’t seem to want company.”
“Send her flowers.”
“I tried. The florist said they were undeliverable.”
“Wait till she’s home.” Lee raised a perfectly arched eyebrow and added, “I might be able to get her unlisted phone number.”
“Could you? Would you?”
CHAPTER SIX
The Star Tattler — June 1943 [Archive]
Certain rumors have surfaced that one ‘South of the Border’ actress of mystery movie fame, before being legally adopted by her high school drama teacher, may have been a product of child prostitution and child abuse. An anonymous source reports photographs have surfaced in the child porn rings being investigated by the police
Looks like she made her theatrical debut long before the RKO studio screen test had them scrambling to sign her up.
—Cricket Summers: Columnist to the Stars
Late one unseasonably hot autumn afternoon, Piper heard the soft whirring of the air-conditioning unit at the side of the Squire house. She saw lights upstairs in Sybil’s bedroom and knew she was home again. The aging actress stayed seven days in the hospi
tal. Two silhouettes behind the window shade of the bathroom told her she wasn’t alone. Piper looked for the housekeeper’s VW. Except for the Lincoln parked in the carport, there were no other cars on the property. The hospital or social services had probably sent along a nurse to care for her. Good. It eased her mind to know Sybil was not stumbling around alone in that huge house with her liquor and cigarettes, a calamity waiting to happen. Of course, what Sybil Squire did or didn’t do was none of her business. Although she was eager to make a courtesy visit, she held off rushing right over. She’d give her a day or two to settle in.
Early the next morning, before leaving for the studio, she heard the housekeeper’s VW pull into the driveway next door. Minutes later, she heard a vocal commotion at the back door of the mansion. She recognized the voice of the housekeeper, raised in anger. Strings of words drifted in the air, “… the hell you say … ain’t leaving till … Just who do you think you are?!” Then she was shouting, “Sybil, honey, it’s Vera! Can you hear me? I ain’t leaving till you talk to me! Sybil-l-l!” Ten minutes later she heard a car door slam. The VW started up with a roar, backed erratically down the driveway, then tore off down the street.
All day at the studio, Piper thought about the episode outside the Squire mansion. What was that all about? A falling out between the housekeeper and her mistress? Over what? The two had seemed so close, so compatible.
#
Lee came through with Sybil’s unlisted home number. Piper called that afternoon. A woman who identified herself as a registered nurse in charge of Mrs. Squire said her patient was not accepting calls or visitors. Piper called two days later and was told the same thing. When she tried to inquire about her health, the connection was broken. She decided to bide her time. If she saw Sybil in her yard, she would make a move to reach out again.
Her final week at the studio was hectic, but not so hectic that she didn’t think about Sybil. Since she’d come home from the hospital there was little or no movement around the house, at least none that Piper could detect. The drapes were opened in the mornings and closed some time before dark each evening. The canaries continued to sing, but Sybil did not venture outdoors.
The housekeeper’s green bug remained conspicuously absent, which surprised Piper. Whatever they had argued about had been more serious than she originally thought. The confrontation reminded her of something Nana had told her about Sybil. She’d suffered abuse at the hands of her mother. Years of neglect, malnutrition, beatings, and possibly sexual exploitation—men eager to pay for a short time in the company of the young girl with spun angel hair. “Mother hated me,” Sybil had told Nana. “She hated me for everything bad that had ever happened to her. There was no good in her life, only bad. Someone had to pay. I guess that someone was me.” A sympathetic drama teacher, a spinster, had thrown Sybil the lifeline that would pluck her from a life of unbelievable oppression and clear the way for happiness and her future success. The teacher became a legal guardian to fifteen-year-old Dolores Robles, and with her limited studio connections was able to get her ward a screen test with RKO. Sybil wowed them. Her first roles had been a deranged babysitter in the dark thriller, Crybaby, and an evil sorceress in Moon Madness. Two films that had recently captured a robust cult following.
Piper finished the WB job and found herself at home again. She needed to find work until the Vogt’s left for Hong Kong at the end of the month. She dug out her old day/date books from her memento box. It had been five years since her last editing job. This was the part of the job she dreaded, calling every contract she knew or didn’t know to say “hi” and “I’m back. Need a good editor?” So many dead ends and brush-offs. The receptionists took her name and number only when she insisted. Gary Ott’s assistant saying, “Mr. Ott’s still on location, may I take a message?” Piper had seen him on the lot yesterday.
Between sending out resumes and cold calling, she thought about Sybil Squire.
Several days later at the bank, the same bank where she’d met Sybil Squire those many weeks ago, she again caught sight of her. The white hair, the light blue eyes—unmistakably Sybil Squire. She almost didn’t recognize her. She seemed different. Not her physical appearance so much, but something in her demeanor. Something was definitely off-kilter. Sybil perched stiffly on a padded bench alongside the wall, her back straight, her feet flat on the floor, neatly aligned. Her hands were in her lap, pulled tight against her stomach. Medical gauze covered one hand completely. A large bandage covered the back of the other hand. A woman in her late fifties or early sixties, slightly disheveled, sat beside her. The contrast between the two women was startling. Sybil’s knit suit and pumps were dated, yet classic. Her trademark platinum hair was neatly coiffed. Her face, now thinner, more mature with tiny creases, was expertly made up and as lovely as ever. The other woman wore baggy gray sweats, no make-up, her dark, gray-streaked hair hanging limp around her face.
A bank employee approached the two women and said, “Mrs. Squire, Mr. Oberson can see you now.” The other woman rose to her feet. Sybil seemed not to have heard the employee and remained sitting. Sybil’s companion took hold of her upper arm and lifted her. They walked to a desk several feet away, the desk of an associate bank manager.
Sybil seemed confused, and sat only after the dark haired woman pressed down on her shoulder. Who was this woman leading Sybil Squire around like a dog on a leash? Not a relative. If what she’d heard from Nana was true, Sybil had no living family after the brutal murder of her daughter four decades ago.
For once Piper didn’t mind waiting in line, even allowing others to go ahead of her. When she could stall no longer and her transaction with the teller was completed, she stepped to the center counter and pretended to scan pamphlets on money market accounts while she continued to spy on the two women. The other woman did all the talking, with Sybil merely nodding, her gaze fixed straight ahead. Papers were passed from one to another and signed. The three stood, both women shook hands with the banker, though Sybil merely placed her fingers in the palm of the man’s hand. Then they headed out the glass door, the stranger, with a hand cupping Sybil’s elbow, guiding her.
Piper hurried to catch up. “Mrs. Squire,” Piper said, stepping out onto the bright sunlit sidewalk. They stopped, turned. “It’s good to see you again. I’m so sorry to hear about the fire and … your injuries.”
Sybil Squire squinted against the sun. She looked at a point on Piper’s forehead. She smiled tentatively.
“It’s Piper. Piper Lundberg. I live in the guesthouse next door. We had coffee in your patio the day of the fire.”
The smiled faded. Any emotion resembling the slightest bit of enthusiasm or interest disappeared, replaced by a blank stare.
The woman with Sybil spoke up. “That’s nice that you’re concerned, but Mrs. Squire isn’t … well, isn’t strong enough to be socializing yet. She’ll give you a call when she’s ready. Won’t you, dear?” Without waiting for Sybil to respond, she took her arm again, turned and led her away.
Piper stood on the sidewalk staring at their retreating backs.
#
Something woke her. The luminous dial on the clock read 4:10. Without turning on the light, Piper put on her robe and went out onto the deck. The sweet scent of night blooming jasmine hung in the air. She breathed it in. A faint odor of chlorine co-mingled with the jasmine. The pool probably hadn’t been vacant for long. Was Sybil swimming again? She shook out a cigarette from the pack, the third cigarette of the night, hoping it would relax her enough to let her go back to sleep.
A cat screamed, then another. Mating or fighting, she couldn’t tell which. The screams settled into the high-pitched wails that sounded so much like the cries of a baby. Not fighting. Mating. That’s probably what woke her.
The muted whop-whop from the rotors of a police helicopter flying high up in the hills oddly melded with the animals sounds. The beam of the copter’s searchlight probed the thick foliage along Mulholland Drive. She looked away, lighting t
he cigarette.
The bulky square shape of the Squire house reared up cold and ugly in the moonlight, its windows dark except for several on the second floor. Piper’s gaze was drawn to them. In a window straight across from her, Sybil’s bedroom window, she saw something odd. Something she couldn’t get her mind around for a moment or two. A figure stood at the arched window. There was no doubt in her mind it was Sybil Squire who stood pressed tight against the window. The heavy drapes were open, sheer transparent panels covered her back, allowing the filtered light from within to outline her pale, naked body. Her arms were stretched straight out above shoulder height, fingers splayed wide against the panes, head bowed. Her white hair, usually worn close to her head, fanned out in wild abandonment. The sheer oddness of her action sent a chill through Piper and made her shudder. Sybil was in pain. Piper could feel it through the void separating their houses.
A hand grabbed Sybil’s arm and pulled her away from the window. The heavy drapes were flung together, shutting out the light from behind. The face of the companion appeared in the place Sybil had occupied. She looked straight at the guesthouse.
Piper cupped her cigarette to hide the glow, then stepped back, deeper into the shadows of the deck.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Star Tattler — May 1944 [Archive]
Sybil Squire, the star of Crybaby and A Pocket Full of Lies, is rumored to have collapsed on the set of her latest project due to exhaustion. Or maybe drugs and booze? Daddy Dearest denies she fired him minutes before paramedics rushed her to the hospital. “Lies,” he shouted to a group of concerned cast and crew members. “She’d be nothing without me. A two-bit actress playing whores and hussies.”
