Sam lived in a tiny Spanish-style bungalow. Painted light yellow with white trim, it had arched lead-paned windows and a tile roof. A porch light glowed softly, illuminating the front of the house lined with shrubs. Chest-high rosebushes bordered the sidewalk leading to the front entrance. We followed the path, the intense perfume of the roses overtaking even the cooked cabbage odor of the leftovers we carried.
The living room was to the left, directly off the entry. Distinctively decorated in sparse, modern furnishings, it was not how I would have envisioned Sam’s taste. The room’s most prominent piece was an L-shaped red velvet couch in a tubular aluminum frame. It faced away from us, in the direction of a fireplace set in the stucco wall. A glass-topped brushed metal coffee table was positioned in front of the sofa. The pieces sat atop an area rug composed of dark geometric patterns. Two chromium-plated pole lamps with pleated shades were positioned on either end of the sofa.
“Bauhaus,” Sam said, a sweep of his arm indicating he was referring to the furniture.
One of the pole lamps had been left on. Sam turned a dimmer device, softening its glow, then walked to the fireplace. Perching the cartons temporarily on the nearby built-in bookcase, he began stacking logs and kindling on the grate while explaining that Bauhaus was the school of design behind the clean-lined modernist furniture. He confided that he’d gotten the hand-crafted pieces “for a song” at the house sale of a bachelor actor who’d joined the Marines and was being shipped overseas.
While Sam looked pleased as Punch with the bargain, I couldn’t help wondering if anyone else had even shown up for the sale. The pieces really looked uninviting.
“Go ahead. Have a seat. Get comfortable,” Sam said, lighting a match.
I dropped onto the couch and was pleasantly surprised. The velvet cushions were indeed comfy. Settling into the crook of the L, I felt the urge to kick off my shoes and put my feet up. I resisted. Sam’s last moments with Frankie were foremost on my mind. I was determined to stay alert.
A dark marble statue of a Samurai warrior, sword drawn, rested on the coffee table. Across the room, a flame leaped in the hearth as the kindling caught.
The bookcases on either side of the fireplace were flanked by windows. I observed the books, bric-a-brac, and Philco radio on the shelves while Sam gathered the cartons. To his right was a small dining area that was actually an extension of the living room. At the center of a glass top table sat a typewriter; next to the typewriter, a silvery gooseneck lamp. Portions of the dining table’s glass surface not covered by the papers strewn across its surface gleamed in the light from an overhead chandelier. The table’s aluminum cylinder design was repeated in the four Bauhaus chairs surrounding it. The seats and backs of the chairs were black leather.
“Sorry for the mess,” he said, passing through the dining area, dimming the chandelier. “My home office.”
From my cozy corner of the couch, I watched Sam disappear behind a curtain of silvery beads, then took another look around. Velvet floor-to-ceiling drapes mounted across one wall’s center were a curious feature. It was an interior wall; there was no window. Had they been hung to cover a piece of artwork? I gauged the width of the wall. Maybe. But it was also possible that—given the thickness of the wall—the drapes covered a recessed nook.
I heard running water and the clink of dishes in the kitchen behind the curtain of beads. My visual survey flipped back to the typewriter on the table. A piece of paper sticking out suggested Sam had been called away, midsentence. What had he been working on?
“People deserve their privacy,” the ingrained pesky voice leftover from my rigid PK upbringing chided. “You’ve done enough snooping for one day.”
At the table, I saw that Sam had been staring at the proverbial blank page. A nearby folder beckoned. Before the censorious voice could tickle my scruples again, I flipped it open.
This was my evening for black and white glossies. Only these weren’t of individuals. They were fuzzy aerial shots of trees and possibly a river. Squinting in the dim light, I tried to understand what I was seeing.
A sudden flourish of rattling beads at my back made me jump. I managed to hang on to the photographs, barely.
Sam was at my side, holding a large tray. He nodded at the images. “Stock footage for an upcoming shoot.”
“Ah,” I said my cheeks hot.
It was an occasion the PK voice in me would be reveling in for months. It couldn’t wait. “You should have listened,” it chimed in that grating sing-songy tone I hated. “How will you get him to tell you about Frankie? There’s no way he’s going to trust you now.”
Sam continued with the tray to the coffee table. The platter held a Japanese tea service and a half dozen or so miniature custard tarts. Set in strawberry-pink pleated paper cups, the Chinese dessert looked festive, indeed.
Now if only I could recapture the conviviality we’d built up to in our last moments at May Lee’s.
The fire had waned while Sam was in the kitchen. I watched while he completed a vigorous pumping of the bellows to fan the fingers of flame. He’d removed his tweed jacket and his shirt revealed the kind of shoulders I liked. Broad, tapering into a narrow waist above long legs.
Time to prove the pesky voice wrong. I walked toward the fireplace, determined to find a way to get him to open up. But how?
I needn’t have worried.
He turned from the hearth and reached for the radio. He twisted the knob. The smoky, world-weary voice of Marlene Dietrich crooning Falling in Love Again filled the softly lit room.
Sam came toward me. The flickering fire cast his angular face in a flattering glow of shadows and golden light. “Dance?”
He folded me into his arms, holding me so close I felt his heart thumping against mine. We moved slowly, shuffling in a small circle near the fireplace to Dietrich’s gravelly lyrics. “Men cluster to me like moths around a flame…”
Sam’s lips brushed that most sensitive nook of my neck. I stiffened, unsure of what was coming next. I would never have guessed.
“You don’t have to snoop,” he whispered in my ear. “I’ll tell you everything.”
Whether the goose bumps that rose along my arms and shoulders were from the warmth of his breath or from the bluntness of his words, I would never know.
Sam’s body tensed and he froze, his grip tightening on my back, digging in so tight it hurt.
“What?” I looked up. My back was to the fireplace. Sam was gaping at something—or someone—over my shoulder. Flames from the hearth danced in the lenses of his steel frames, but the terror behind them in his eyes was unmistakable.
“What is it?” I repeated, squirming to break free of his grasp.
Abruptly, Sam snapped away from me as if a bucket of ice water had been tossed on us. I whirled. A flash of movement outside the window, then darkness. I spun back to face Sam.
“Was someone out there, Sam? Speak to me!”
His expression was dazed. He stood pop-eyed, tongue-tied.
A frenzied rendition of It Don’t Mean a Thing blared in the background. I caught if it ain’t got that swing and wanted to swing my fist, knock a reply from Sam’s mouth. It’d been a horrendous day, a horrendous couple of days. Now this.
Well, I wouldn’t use my fist, but I had to snap him out of it, get some answers.
“I know Frankie took you on a joy ride,” I said, going for broke. “She’s paying a terrible price. Her career is on the line, maybe even her life. Who sabotaged her plane? The person at the window? You?”
Sam looked stunned, then devastated. “Me? No!” He looked away.
“Sam?”
He faced me again. A tear rained from under the steel rims. “I love Frankie. I’m so sorry…”
He wiped the tear and his demeanor changed again. His hand clutched his mouth as though he were about to throw up or scream. He began pacing in front of the fireplace.
“Sam, what is it?” I pleaded.
<
br /> He continued to pace in silence.
I shouted, “Sam Lorenz, stop that this minute.”
He stopped…and moved toward me like a zombie. “Get away from me. Get away.”
Before I could react, he grabbed my forearm. Gripping it with superhuman strength I would never have guessed he had in him, he dragged me around the sofa toward the front door. I pretended to trip. Still he pulled me along. With his free hand, he turned the doorknob and heaved the wooden door inward. I struggled to break free, but he held me close and hard.
Outside, he hurled me off the stoop onto the sidewalk as though I was nothing more than a rag doll.
My foot twisted off the sidewalk’s edge, thrusting me into mortal combat with the rose hedge. The encounter nearly cost several marauding bushes their lives. My arms flailed at canes, leaves, and thorns, battering them with a wrath they would never forget. Men! First Gunnar, now Sam.
A cold rage filled me. Without so much as a backward glance, I stomped down the walkway, rummaging my pockets for the keys. Tears blurred the journey into watery light and shadow. I slammed the car door. The lingering smell of Chinese food melded with the sweet perfume of crushed rose petals that clung to my hair and clothing. The combination had a sudden sickening impact. My stomach heaved. I got the door open in the nick of time. Dinner with Sam Lorenz spewed out with a vengeance, hitting the pavement with a grotesque splat.
I drove home knotted with confusion and anger. I hated Sam for whatever was ailing him, and I hated myself more. Why did I have to be so nosey? Go prying into his things? Because I thought I was clever enough to single-handedly solve the mystery of the sabotage attempt, that’s why. Ha.
Why had I compromised myself? All evening—maybe since I met him—I’d been making excuses for Sam’s behavior toward me. Set aside my personal instincts, held back my opinions. Why?
To prove that with enough stubborn determination I could get my way? That I could use Sam’s know-how to create the film Miss C wanted? Because I wanted to have a little fling? Because his looks were out of the ordinary? Because his view of women seemed more objective than most men’s?
Well, he was different from other men all right. He was different, period!
I brooded the entire way back to the Dunns’, vowing to listen to the little voice next time.
***
In my room back at the Dunns’, things brightened. My jade-green satin pajamas awaited me, neatly folded, atop my pillow. A sprig of white jasmine rested across them.
Chapter Thirteen
The sight of roses on the ledge of Gus’ newsstand made my stomach lurch.
Huge blossoms in a gorgeous shade of peach—on another day they would have sent me. This morning, they brought to mind my disastrous evening with Sam Lorenz.
Clasping my arms across my midriff, I continued toward the kiosk. Recalling Sam’s dating behavior, a Dr. Jekyll-Mr. Hyde transformation straight out of a Lugosi horror movie, I shuddered, then rubbed my arms, trying to shake off the memory. The friction irritated a scratch near my elbow. While it might be possible to bury a bruised psyche, the reminders on my skin would be harder to hide. I looked down and regarded my badly scraped hands, poorly camouflaged with make-up. Last night, the rosebushes had given me a pretty good thrashing. This morning, I’d had to borrow liquid foundation from Della’s vanity to cover up my wounds.
Another scar, a permanent one, courtesy of my arch enemy from Detroit, Cardillac, throbbed on my forearm. Cardillac had also surprised me with her transformation. Not a Dr. Jekyll-Mr. Hyde thing exactly. She’d always been evil, I just hadn’t seen it. Too often you are blind to the faults of those you love. Ilka’s clairvoyant insight penetrated my thoughts once again. No, not Cardillac. What wasn’t I seeing about Sam? And what–who –had he seen at the window? I’d seen nothing myself. Perhaps he’d come forward and explain. Not that I was anxious to see him again.
Time, and steering clear of Sam, I reassured myself, would help heal both the mental and physical scars. Meantime, I had a busy day ahead. I planned to throw myself into work.
A crammed agenda didn’t mean I had to forego my morning dose of gossip, did it? My keyed-up state last night had carried over into the early morning and I’d bounced out of bed, wired for another early start. I had a leg up on the day, anyway.
Gus got underway early too. As I approached the newsstand, I saw him huddled once again with the brazen MP who repulsed me—the one with the wandering beady eyes. The two were off to one side of the kiosk, several yards from where I stopped. Gus saw me and waved. Happily, the MP’s back was to me. I wouldn’t be at the mercy of his suggestive glances.
Today, to the cerise vest and tweed cap he’d had on the last few mornings, Gus had added violet pants and an orange shirt. I smiled. Where did he come up with such crazy combinations? A charity bin? It was possible. Newspaper vendoring didn’t pay much. And an immigrant couldn’t have brought many possessions with him, right? From his accent, I assumed he was from somewhere in Europe. Which country? What had brought him here?
Grabbing a Times from the shelf below the magazine racks, I scanned the front page, my thoughts segueing to our boys serving overseas in foreign lands.
TOTAL OF U.S. WAR DEAD NOW 25,389.
The headline was sobering. I shook my head sadly, attempting to assimilate the huge loss of lives. Beneath the headline, the article continued its grim accounting. Wounded: 35,805—Missing, many perhaps dead: 32,953—Prisoners of war: 26,820. Total casualties: 120,967.
The figures made me think of Frankie, hovering between life and death in the nearby hospital. They also reminded me of why I was ferrying planes, and why I was here in Hollywood. Above and beyond helping to preserve Frankie’s dignity and very being, my duty was to uphold the honor of those of us on the home front doing what we could to help bring an end to the war.
I slapped the paper back together at the fold. The personal woes I’d been harboring were swept aside as Sam Lorenz was relegated to an appropriate category: history!
Returning the Times to its stack, I cast another sidelong glance at Gus and the MP, still absorbed in conversation. Fresh issues of Variety and Hollywood Reporter rested beside the Times. Curious about the crowds I’d observed along Sunset the previous night, I examined a copy of one, then the other, scanning the bold headings.
Both tabloids had the scoop I was after, and I gave the Reporter’s version a hurried skim.
The War Department wanted more entertainers to go overseas to entertain the troops. To help the cause, Bob Hope, Jack Benny, Judith Anderson, and Frances Langford had jointly signed and wired invitations to the most famous names in pictures, asking them to come out and hear those who’d already been “over there” tell about their experiences and explain why others should go. Four hundred and fifty stars and studio executives had shown up for the event at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. Captain Clark Gable had been on hand lending support.
Gus’ voice broke my concentration. “How is Frankie? Any improvement?”
I shook my head and returned to the present. The MP, I noticed, was ambling away down the sidewalk. “No change. But I’m planning on visiting her again later today. Going to try an experiment that might reach her, maybe draw her out of her coma.” I held crossed fingers in the air, smiling.
Some good had come out of my dinner date with Sam. In bed afterwards, I’d replayed the night’s events over and over. While I lay awake, I remembered Sam asking about what Frankie had said the other day in the hospital. The garbled sounds she’d made came to me in a rush, just before dawn. The sudden epiphany felt significant and filled me with hope. I planned to repeat the sounds to her after work.
“Have they discovered what made the plane to crash?” Gus asked.
The Hollywood Reporter, still in my hand, fluttered. Gus ran a pretty good grapevine. Could he know it was sabotage?
“Nothing official yet,” I hedged. “Early bets were on mechanical failure. Why?”
<
br /> The wiry brow above his steadfast blue eye shot up. His brown eye shifted nervously. “Some have claimed the pilot was at fault…”
My jaw dropped. I wanted to jump to Frankie’s defense, but Gus held up a hand to stop me. “No, no. Not to worry. That is not my opinion. And only one or two have said it.”
That’s one or two too many, I thought. The very reason Novara mustn’t be allowed to use the accident clip. Why project the incident on screen over and over? Better to let it—and all the inherent speculation that goes with a plane crash, especially one where the pilot was a woman—fade to black, soon as possible.
Gus continued, “Of course, there is the possibility that someone vandalized the plane—” He paused and adjusted the display of Silver Screen on the rack between us.
I held my breath. My pulse raced. Did he know who?
“Ah, but no one believes such subversive activity is likely,” he rambled. “Security at March Field, it is tight as a drum. Not like at MGM.”
My shoulders sagged. I released my breath slowly. So he didn’t know anything about the saboteur or the fuel tampering. “What’s security at MGM got to do with anything?”
He bowed over the tidy stack of Hollywood Reporters and began fussing with it. “Look what happened to the director Brody at MGM. And just before his demise, the unexplained fire…”
I stared at Gus’ stooped back. The fire had broken out on a high security sound stage. According to Gunnar, it had been deliberately set, likely by the operatives we were trying to chase down. Gus must have gotten the report from his personal all-seeing “source.” But how brash. Or foolhardy. The source was either ignorant of the law, or so confident he would not be fingered for passing along classified information that he’d ignored the possibility of facing a firing squad.
“I didn’t know there was a fire. Where’d you hear that?”
Gus looked back over his shoulder and narrowed his good eye as if to say, you think I’m going to tell you that?
I quickly shifted. “Hear anything new on Brody’s case? His murder investigation?”
Hollywood Buzz Page 19
