Tinseltown Confidential

by Martin Turnbull

  The bell on Kathryn’s fake oven tinged. “Betty?” Kathryn said toward her microphone, “my timer is going off. That must mean yours is, too.”

  “Ringing like a church bell!”

  “In that case, here we go!”

  Kathryn opened the oven door and pulled out a fluffy yellow cake. The Betty Crocker people wouldn’t take a chance that her cake would flop on live television, so someone had baked a principal lemon chiffon as well as a backup. A stagehand had inserted it into the back of the oven just minutes before.

  Kathryn pulled it out and lifted it in front of her. “Mmmm!” she exclaimed exactly as she’d done at each of her department store shows. “You’re absolutely right, Betty! Your method really does guarantee a perfect cake every time I bake, cake after cake after cake.”

  It was a corny line, but it paraphrased the TV ads. In truth, Kathryn really did enjoy lemon chiffon, so she wasn’t lying. But it irked her that they couldn’t have come up with something more substantial for her to do.

  Dead air. No Adelaide. Low-humming static.

  Through the open oven door, Kathryn heard Dex whisper, “We’ve lost her. You’ve got fifteen seconds to wrap up. Thank Betty, thank the viewers for watching, say your goodbyes, and keep the cake in full view.”

  Without a television set to show her what the viewers could see, Kathryn held the cake in place and let the cameraman frame her. She babbled her closing remarks and maintained her smile until she heard Dex announce, “And we’re out!” The lights switched off, and suddenly the temperature dipped twenty degrees.

  “Thank you, everybody!” Kathryn exclaimed.

  She sought out Winchell’s face. He wasn’t there. It was rude of him to walk out during the broadcast, but she was relieved. A stagehand brought her a towel and she blotted the sweat tracks that streaked her white makeup.

  The guy handed her a note. “Mr. Winchell told me to give you this after the show.”

  She unfolded the paper with dread and skimmed his message.

  “Oh, crap.”

  * * *

  Thomas Danford tilted his head. “Tell me that name again.”

  “Kathryn Massey.”

  “You say it like I should know who that is.”

  “She’s a columnist with the Hollywood Reporter.”

  “Hollywood, huh? Are you from Los Angeles too, Mr. Adler?”

  Marcus nodded. “Kathryn and I are very good friends.”

  “And why has she sent you here?”

  Marcus decided a friendly smile might help ease the shock. “Because . . . she is . . . your . . . daughter.”

  His words hit like a series of punches. With each successive blow, Danford bowed lower and lower until his forehead hung over the tabletop. He stayed that way until he had sufficiently marshaled his wits and rose to meet Marcus in the eye.

  “Will you explain how you came to be here? And please remember that our time is fleeting.”

  Marcus gave Danford a précis of Kathryn’s encounter with a photograph on the set of Sunset Boulevard of her four-year-old self sitting on the knee of a man that her mother later explained was her father, who was currently locked up in Sing Sing for treason.

  Danford threaded his fingers together. “So she’s a columnist with—which paper?”

  “The Hollywood Reporter, but she’s syndicated across the country and has her own radio show, Window on Hollywood. Today she’s hosting the very first two-coast simultaneous television transmission.”

  “I thought her name was Violet.” Anguish cut through his voice like a scythe. “That’s what her mother told me at the time.”

  Yep, Marcus thought, that sounds very Francine. Give him a fake name and put him off the scent.

  Danford dropped his head into his hands. “Tell me more about my daughter. What is she like? What is she good at? Is she married? Happy? Healthy? Do I have grandchildren?”

  Danford kept his eyes down while Marcus answered his questions in the last minutes of their allotted time. When Marcus was done, Danford’s eyes were blunted with agony.

  “I’m glad you came and not her.”

  “She wanted to. Desperately. But it was—” Marcus groped for a gentler substitute for “career suicide.” Fortunately, Danford saved him the trouble.

  “I couldn’t bear her to see me like this. It would be the ultimate humiliation.”

  One of the guards behind Danford caught Marcus’ eye. He tapped his wrist.

  “There’s a question I know Kathryn’s got on her mind.”

  “Am I guilty of treason?” The guy was every bit as sharp as his daughter—or was it the other way around? “I’ve been tried by a panel of my peers and found guilty, so does it really matter?”

  “It does to her.”

  “Mr. Adler, I could tell you that I’m innocent and that I was framed, but I live in an institution where ninety percent of the men say the same thing, so there’s no reason my daughter should believe me. But tell her thank you for doubting that I could really commit such a crime.”

  The guard started walking toward them.

  “Francine thinks you’re innocent,” Marcus said.

  Danford raised his eyebrows in appreciative surprise. “Kathryn must forget about me. Nothing good can come from the press catching wind that we are father and daughter.” A shadow fell across him as he stood. “One black sheep per family is more than enough; two is overkill.” The guard clamped a hand on his shoulder and pulled him away from the table.

  Marcus jumped up. “What do you mean ‘two’?”

  The guard lifted his flattened palm toward Marcus. “Please exit the way you came in.”

  “There’s only Kathryn and Francine,” Marcus pressed. “Who are you talking about?”

  The only sound in the hall was his voice echoing off the cold concrete.

  * * *

  Kathryn’s week was a blur of firsts, bests, and unforgettables. Guys and Dolls at the 46th Street Theatre, The King and I at the St. James, and Paint Your Wagon at the Schubert; shopping at Bergdorf Goodman and Tiffany’s; a Central Park carriage ride; the top of the Empire State Building; lobster Newburg at Delmonico’s and pastrami at Carnegie Deli.

  Leo said yes to everything she asked for.

  A banana split sundae at Rumpelmayer’s? Yes!

  A ferry to the Statue of Liberty? Yes!

  The Abstract Expressionism exhibit at the Met? Yes!

  It was a dream come true . . . until she got that note from Winchell:

  Meet me at the Stork Club

  3 East 53rd St

  I’ll leave your name with the maître d’

  10 PM tomorrow night

  Punctuality is a virtue

  W.W.

  For such a famous place, the Stork Club had an unassuming frontage. A black canvas awning stretched from the door to the curb with the name painted plainly in white.

  When Kathryn gave her name to the maître d’, he led her into the innermost sanctum: the Cub Room. All eyes fixated on Kathryn as a waiter in a crisp, tight tux led her through the thicket to the most famous table in the city: Number 50, from which Winchell spied, joked, interviewed, and gathered material for his gossip column.

  Winchell was dressed in a dark blue suit teamed with a necktie of a gorgeous shade of blue that reminded Kathryn of the jacaranda trees that bloomed along Santa Monica Boulevard in the early summer. It would be the perfect gift for Marcus.

  What a doll he’d been to drive up to Sing Sing. With his writerly eye for detail, he described the chill of the air, the clanging of the metal doors, the way her father walked, the shape of his face, and the weary edge to his voice. Danford was probably right to advise her to put distance between them, but who was this black sheep?

  Winchell rose when Kathryn approached. “Right on time.” He motioned toward the seat to his right.

  “Punctuality is a virtue, don’t you know?”

  “I do, but not everybody agrees with me.”

  A waiter appeared and Kathryn
ordered a sidecar.

  “The Long Island duckling à l’orange is very good,” Winchell said, “as are the broiled jumbo El Panama shrimps Provençale.”

  Kathryn scanned the room and spotted Orson Welles at a table near the front. If she’d seen him, she would have stopped to say hello, if only to show Winchell she was not without contacts and allies—even in New York.

  “Your demonstration yesterday,” Winchell said. “You handled yourself like a pro. Very impressive.”

  “Imagine how impressed you’d have been if you’d stayed to the end.”

  “I wanted to.” Why do I find that hard to swallow? “But I had a previous engagement.” Like fun you did. “And you know what a stickler I am for punctuality.” All I know is you’ve called me here where you’ve got home advantage. “I saw enough to be able to talk about it in my column tomorrow.” Then why delay mentioning it for two days?

  She tapped the armrests of her chair. “Is this where Hoover sits?”

  “Interesting that you should bring up Hoover.”

  “It’s because I have a theory.”

  There was a pause as Winchell gave a quasi-military salute to a brownnoser in a straw boater a few tables away, then lit a Lucky Strike with well-oiled dexterity. “Theory about what?”

  Marcus had been on his fourth sidecar at Tavern on the Green last night when he decided Winchell shared Hoover’s grudge against Kathryn. Since the end of the Prohibition, Winchell had been filling inches in the New York Daily Mirror with his tête-à-têtes with Hoover, and it was safe to assume Hoover had told him about the time Kathryn went toe-to-toe with him. She’d only just gotten away with it. “A theory about you and Hoover,” she said.

  Winchell neither smiled nor scoffed. “What about us?”

  “You’re in cahoots.”

  “Against who?”

  “Me.”

  “You know how paranoid that sounds, don’t you?”

  Her theory hadn’t seemed so extreme over boeuf bourguignon, but now it sounded a tad ridiculous. She persisted anyway.

  “I stood up to Hoover once; he doesn’t like that. Nor does he forget it. And since my announcement about Mayer’s ousting, my ratings have soared. And I think that makes you nervous.”

  He shot a plume of cigarette smoke from the side of his mouth. “You do, huh?”

  “Furthermore, I made it onto television first and I think that burns your derrière.”

  That last part had only just occurred to her as she observed how every one of the well-heeled guests surrounding them nodded and cowed like he was King George.

  “Is that what you think?”

  “If you appeared on television before I had, I’d be jealous as hell.”

  That wasn’t true at all, but Kathryn had been around enough egomaniacs to know how to soften them up.

  “That’s quite a theory you’ve worked up there, Miss Massey. You got anything to back it up?”

  “Your man in LA.”

  “You’ll need to be more specific than that.”

  As she described the skinny creep from the night of St. Cyr’s arrest, Winchell listened with admirable restraint. But the twitch of his upper lip and tiny spasm in his pinkie finger gave him away.

  “You really should pay him more to ensure his loyalty,” Kathryn told Winchell. “He may as well have ‘mercenary louse’ tattooed across his forehead.”

  “He’s not my louse.” Winchell winced when he realized he’d overshot the truth. “Not mine alone, at any rate.”

  “Who else does he belong to?”

  He gave Kathryn a level look. “Joe McCarthy. He hates you, by the way.”

  “McCarthy? We’ve never even met,” she said. “Why would he hate me?”

  “Because of what you’ve done.”

  “What have I done?”

  “Joseph McCarthy is loyal, if nothing else. He never forgets a friend.”

  Oh, God, Kathryn thought.

  Ruby Courtland’s words from the night of the All About Eve premiere came back to her: “My dad and Senator Joe went to the same college. They’re old pals, and Hoover knows it.”

  If there are fifteen million people in New York, how come the same names keep circling me like hornets: Hoover, Winchell, McCarthy, Courtland. “I thought you hated Ruby’s father,” she said.

  Winchell jabbed his cigarette into the air between them. “Otis Courtland is a miserable piece of shit and I hope he spends eternity eating Hitler’s puke in hell.” He sank back against his seat. “But McCarthy thinks he’s a stand-up guy because they went to Marquette together. Ergo—”

  “Ergo, I’m at the top of his bitch list because I contributed to his daughter’s downfall and subsequent ride on the midnight train to I-don’t-care-where.”

  The waiter appeared. Kathryn ordered the Long Island duckling à l’orange, then nearly laughed out loud when her host ordered the stuffed boneless Cornish hen à la Walter Winchell with a straight face.

  “So tell me, Walter, is this invitation purely a social call?”

  “I figured you’d enjoy the view from Table Fifty.”

  The atmosphere of the Cub Room was every bit as rarified as she’d hoped. There were enough famous figures, furs, and facelifts here for a week of columns. Henry Fonda and Leland Heyward, both ex-husbands of Margaret Sullavan, had joined Orson Welles at his table near the front, and Kathryn longed to be with them, listening to a conversation that was probably meandering around every topic except the obvious one.

  “I must say,” she admitted, “it’s lived up to its reputation. But I can’t help feeling there’s another reason you summoned me.”

  “As a matter of fact, there is. I recently made a trip up north along the Hudson River to pay someone a visit.”

  “I assume you didn’t go for the fishing.”

  “Oh, I went fishing, all right.”

  The waiter appeared with fresh drinks, clearing the empty glasses and replacing the ashtray without making eye contact.

  “What did you think of him?” Kathryn asked.

  “I keep current with Boston politics, but only peripherally. The Danford case was a sensation. I heard rumors about it being a frame-up. They died off when he was convicted. But the facts of the case stayed with me. Somehow, they just didn’t add up.”

  “You think he’s innocent?”

  “I’m saying that I wasn’t convinced. I went to see him because if he’s innocent, and if there’s a way to prove it, it would make for the sort of headlines I relish.”

  “How did he strike you?”

  Winchell sucked the juice out of the orange slice garnishing his drink. “Even in prison stripes, with a crew cut and a three-day beard, he’s quite credible. But he’s also resigned to his fate.”

  But surely someone with Danford’s background was smart enough to see the advantages of having an advocate as powerful as Winchell on the outside.

  “Why are you telling me all this?” Kathryn asked.

  “I thought you’d like to know.”

  “Are you setting me up to owe you a favor?”

  “If I was, would it be so bad?”

  It wouldn’t, but the thought was enough to make her squirm in her seat.

  CHAPTER 16

  Kathryn and Marcus walked around back of the Chateau Marmont to Francine Massey’s rented bungalow. Kathryn’s mother had been the hotel’s head telephone operator for years and qualified for cheap employee housing on site.

  Even though the Marmont was within walking distance of the Garden of Allah, Kathryn and Francine didn’t often see each other, preferring to maintain a friendly truce at a distance. But inevitably some rabid issue would rear up and before anyone could say “You’re so alike,” they’d be butting heads.

  Kathryn paused at Francine’s front door. “This black sheep thing, it could be anyone. It could even be worse than being locked away in Sing Sing for treason.”

  “Let’s not jump to any conclusions.” Marcus took her left hand and stroked the top of it
. “She may not even know.”

  “Maybe I’m better off not knowing. There’s a lot to be said for plausible deniability.”

  Kathryn tried to pull away, but Marcus tightened his grip. “I believe it was Confucius who said, ‘Ignorance is bliss . . . unless there’s a possibility that Walter Winchell might also know and use it against you in the court of café society.’”

  She couldn’t help but smile. “You’re a nut.”

  “And nuts are delicious.” He released her hand. “You want me to take the lead?”

  “This is about my family. But I doubt I can remain objective. Not with Lady Dahlia in there.”

  “So that’s a yes?”

  The door swung open. “How much longer are you two planning on standing there?”

  Kathryn blushed, wondering if her mother heard the Lady Dahlia crack.

  In the fifteen years she’d lived in her compact employee housing, Francine had scarcely changed anything, so when Kathryn walked in and found everything had changed, she was thrown off guard.

  The brown leather loveseat that had always been against the left wall was now a low-slung cream sofa against the front wall. The two mismatched chairs were now a single club chair, and the seaman’s chest Francine had always used for a coffee table was gone. So was the bookshelf full of dahlias, and she had painted the living room light yellow.

  “Do you like it?” Francine asked.

  Aside from Marcus and Gwendolyn, one of the few constants in Kathryn’s life had been her mother. Although they rarely got along, hers was an unvarnished opinion she could count on, and her home was one she could walk into and know where everything was. “It feels like a whole different place.”

  “I redecorated.”

  “It looks peculiar without your dahlias,” Marcus said.

  “They’re a lot of work,” Francine said blithely, and pointed to the sofa.

  The two of them took a seat. The redecoration had thrown Kathryn a curve ball. She pulled a face at Marcus. Yes, I want you to take the lead.

  “Francine,” he pressed his hands together, “when Kathryn and I were in New York, I rented a car and drove up to Sing Sing.”