Hollywood Buzz
Page 20
Gus straightened up. “No, nothing. Must be the police they didn’t have enough on Chalmers to book him. If they had thrown him in the clink, it would be all over the front pages that is sure.”
“Heard anything about what’s going on that’s not in the papers?”
Gus shrugged. “My source has no further information.” He was staring at me. “My dear young lady. What happened with your face?”
My hand flew to my cheek. “Ah, I was playing with a kitten. They get rambunctious so easily.” I faked a smile.
Gus reached for the coffee can full of roses. “How about a rose?”
“NO.” The response exploded from my mouth. Gus looked crushed, but I wasn’t about to touch another rose, even to please him. “Sorry.” I mustered a weak smile. “Big day ahead. Gotta run.” To make up for the brusque rejection, I doubled my usual tip.
With a smile, Gus pocketed the money and wished me a good day.
***
Talking with Gus about my plan for repeating Frankie’s utterances gave me a fresh wave of hope. I felt a sudden inexplicable compulsion to try it, checked my watch, and decided there was enough time.
***
A tall, graying, distinguished-looking doctor carrying a clipboard tucked in one hand exited Frankie’s room and walked briskly down the corridor in the opposite direction.
“Dr. Farr?” I called. The doctor, his white coat flapping in the gust created by his fast pace and long stride, kept going. He must not have heard me. Or, it hadn’t been Dr. Farr. We’d only talked on the telephone. I didn’t actually know what he looked like.
The curtain was drawn around Frankie’s bed. On the other side, a sniffling noise.
I parted the seam and pushed through the opening. “Frankie?”
The nurse familiar from my other visits stood at the head of the bed with her back to me looking down at Frankie. She lifted a handkerchief to her face, dabbed a few times, and turned to face me.
“Miss Lew-is…” Her voice was nasal, her eyes watery. “I’m so so-sorry. She’s g-gone. Dr. Fa-ar…” She paused and cleared her throat. “Dr. Farr was just here. I’m sorry…”
The nurse stepped aside and revealed Frankie’s face. My first reaction was that the nurse had made a mistake. Or that she was playing a bad joke. Frankie looked the same. The expression locked in its grim mask, the lips crusty, eyelids puffy…but then the unmistakable difference. Her skin was tinged pasty blue; her lips, a purplish hue.
“Oh no-ooo, Frankie…” The words, her name, emerged in a keening wail. A pounding in my head made it difficult to hear. The nurse sounded like she was in another room, far away.
“Dr. Farr will be back soon. He went to call the authorities.”
I nodded absently. My feet had turned to lead, but I reached Frankie’s side. Tentatively, I reached for the dark matted hair, gently smoothing it. My fingers brushed her forehead. Cold to the touch. My hand trembled.
The nurse snuffled. Tucking herself quietly in next to me, she wrapped an arm around my waist. “I’m so sorry.”
My eyes pooled and Frankie’s features blurred. “I’m the one who’s sorry,” I whimpered. “She was a WASP, my sister in flying, my friend. I was the only family she had here. I s-s-should have been here…”
Miraculously, the nurse pulled a clean handkerchief from her sleeve. I blotted my face.
The nurse shook her head sympathetically. She sensed that I needed to get it out. And get it out I did. The dam burst. Head bowed, my face buried in the handkerchief, I cried in jerky sobs repeating “Why? Why? Why?” until my stomach ached, my throat felt raw, and my eyes burned. All the while, the nurse, gently rubbing my back, matched my distress with calm, quiet talk about having faith in nature and destiny and order.
“Frankie’s life had its own meaning, her death has meaning as well,” she assured me. “Maybe it’s not clear now, but one day her reason for being on this earth will be obvious to you. And there was a reason your life was intertwined with hers. Already that’s clear. In your visits with Frankie, you gave her something of yourself. You shared your presence, your friendship. You gave her comfort and your thoughts. Those are wonderful gifts.”
The nurse’s words soothed me. The tears helped. Like an overflow valve, they drained out enough sorrow so that my grief for Frankie became a manageable lump I thought I could hold inside.
I stared at the handkerchief in my hands, a pathetic damp wad. “Sorry,” I whispered hoarsely, absently twisting it.
“For what? There’s nothing you need be sorry over.”
“I’ve ruined it. It’s stained…” I looked at the nurse through eyes so swollen I could hardly see.
“Not like your grief is staining your heart.” She rubbed the small of my back gently.
I squeezed the nurse’s hand. “You’re wonderful. Thank you.” I looked at Frankie. “And, you’ve given me an idea. A special way we can honor Frankie’s life.” The nurse’s earlier words came back to me all at once. “What happened? How did she die? You said Dr. Farr was making a call to the authorities…”
The nurse glanced over her shoulder. “The doctor should be back soon. Or, maybe he’s waiting for them…”
We were on the side of the bed near Frankie’s broken arm. The nurse turned and nodded to the intravenous bottle on the other side of the bed.
The nurse nodded. “Over there.” I started to circle the end of the bed. “Careful,” she warned. “Don’t disturb anything.”
A vial had shattered near the foot of the I.V. stand, scattering shards of glass in a wild pattern on the floor around it. Moving in close, I knelt down and visually examined what remained of the container. The bold black letters KCl were evident on the green label.
“Potassium,” the nurse whispered. She read my perplexed expression. “A high dose injected into the I.V. would cause instant death.” Her eyes welled up. “We’ve witnessed so much of the suffering with this war. Boys crippled, maimed…” Her voice catching, she paused, swallowed. “So many young lives cut short. A-nnd the poor families.” Atop her dark hair, the stiff white cap pitched with the slow rocking motion of her head. “Now this monstrous act. Here, just down the hall from the nurse station. Horrible!”
I was stunned. “Someone deliberately did this? Murder? When? When did it happen? Did anyone see anything? Hear anything? You were right down the hall, someone must have…”
The nurse bristled. “No one on the nursing crew heard or saw anything. Following doctor’s orders, I looked in our Frankie every two hours throughout the night. At five-thirty when I checked, she was fine. Two hours later, when I came again, she had expired. I called Dr. Farr immediately. He arrived, spotted the broken vial—” The nurse sighed. “She was such a sweet young thing,” she whispered.
We looked at Frankie. Neither of us spoke for what seemed like a long time, but could only have been moments. I took a deep breath and glimpsed my watch. I could not be here when the authorities arrived. I would need a sabotage update from Miss C first. They’d get to me soon enough anyway, I suspected.
I squeezed the nurse’s shoulder. “I’m expected at the studio. I’ll check back with you soon.”
Turning to leave, the sight of Frankie’s flight jacket, hanging inside the closet, stopped me. The leather was badly shredded. Blood stains marred her saddle shoes. There was something so personal about the shoes and something so ominous about seeing the spilled blood on them. The times I’d been with Frankie, she’d been wearing those shoes. That’s how I remembered her. Full of life. Walking around in saddle shoes. Not some cold lifeless form lying in a sterile hospital bed, the victim of some crazed fanatic.
I marched back to her and gulped down the lump forming in my throat. “Who could have done this to you Frankie?” My voice cracked. I took a deep breath. When I spoke again, my voice was resolute. “Frankie, we’re going to find the person who did this. We’ll get the guy. He’ll pay. That’s a promise.”
I brushed her forehead ever so lightly with a kiss. My eyelashes skimmed the sutures of the gash. The angry red scar—now purple—the black sutures, the crusted bleeding points filled my vision. I knew the sight would remain in my mind forever. So would the spilled blood I’d seen on Frankie’s shoes.
***
If the typing pool gals were curious about my swollen eyes and scratched face, they said nothing. Several sets of peepers flicked up from whatever project they’d been concentrating on as I whisked by. My grim persona might have warned them off or it could have been my determined pace, but not a peep as I weaved through the warren of desks to get to the hall.
It was beyond me how I would make it through the day, but I’d made a promise to Frankie. And each step I took, each task I finished, each clue I uncovered, would bring me closer to unmasking the saboteur, who it now appeared had decisively finished the job.
First up, I needed to talk with Miss C. In the booth, I placed my call. The receptionist at the hotel where she was staying—the appointed place for reaching her—reported she was out for the day. “It’s absolutely not possible to contact her,” said an annoying child-like voice on the other end. “She did not leave word where she was going.”
I slammed the receiver into its cradle, slid to the wooden seat, and sighed. “Curses.”
I heaved myself up. If Miss C could stay the course no matter what else might be going on, so could I.
***
A telephone slip with a message from Ilka sat propped on my desk. The note said that the filming of her movie, in truth only a “briefie,” would take place the next morning at MGM. She hoped I could make it.
Ilka had already made the point that hers was not a speaking part. Now I thought she might be trying to set my expectations. A briefie, as the name suggested, wouldn’t be much of a film production. In purpose, briefies were similar to Victory shorts—they showed citizens how to conserve, assist, and sacrifice for the war effort, or they conveyed celebrity pleas on behalf of war charities. But while Victory shorts such as the one we were making about the WASP ran about twenty minutes in length, briefies—more of an announcement than anything—were only about one or two minutes.
Still, seeing Ilka in action was a bright spot to look forward to. I checked my calendar. I could do it, but it’d be tight. The ferrying shoot was scheduled later in the day.
A second part to Ilka’s message reminded me that tonight was the Hungarian Federation auction at the Grand Hotel. I would be on my own for dinner.
My thoughts skipped back to the P-51 ferrying shoot and I slumped in my seat, picking at my cuticles. I had a lot riding on the segment. If I wanted to have a hand in developing and producing other ideas I’d proposed for improving Sky Belles, Novara had to be impressed with how this came off. That meant my performance and the production logistics had to be flawless.
Before going to the hospital, I’d feared my life could be on the line doing the sequence. Far as I knew, the saboteur was still on the loose. But now that it looked like he’d been after Frankie all along, could I take the P-51 up without worry? No, someone had wanted to send a message that women should not be flying military planes. A message meant to frighten us off. Which circled back to would he try to eliminate other WASPs who would dare to flaunt what they did before a camera?
I recoiled in pain. I’d torn a cuticle. As if my hands didn’t look bad enough! Immediately, I was ashamed. I was worried about appearance? Frankie had lost her life. Why had Miss C left the decision up to me?
Mad Max! Maybe she’d heard something further.
I dashed back to the pay phone and got through to Max directly. That was as far as my good fortune would extend. It didn’t occur to me until she picked up that Max wouldn’t have yet heard about Frankie. It took a little time—I started crying more than once—but I told her what had happened. Afterwards, a few empty seconds passed while neither of us felt like speaking.
Max broke the silence. “So the bastard thought she knew something. Was afraid she’d talk if she pulled through.”
My heart pounded. “Wha-what are you saying? He thought she knew who did it? That’s the motive?”
“Yeah, but seems strange to take the risk, given her already near-death condition.”
Recalling how proud I’d been over Frankie’s small breakthrough in muttering some incomprehensible sounds, I felt sick. Had she been trying to give me a name? Who had I bragged to? The nurse. Sam. Gus. Miss C…Had they told others? Had I? Had word that she’d “talked” reached the killer?
It was too much to even suppose I might have unintentionally triggered Frankie’s demise. I forced the nightmarish proposition from my mind.
We turned to whether I should fly. Max had seen or heard nothing to suggest that an official investigation into Frankie’s crash was underway. So was it still open season?
Miss C would take the P-51 up, I reminded myself. And in the hospital, I’d had the idea of honoring Frankie by dedicating my flight—and the film—to her.
I resolved to go ahead.
After telling Max my decision, we agreed on a slight compromise. Following Miss C’s suggestion, Max would conduct the P-51’s final inspection. She’d test the fuel. We’d also go over the plane as a team, eyes peeled for signs of tampering.
We hung up, and I began wrestling with the next problem.
Novara had given Sam and me joint responsibility for writing up all the new segments I’d recommended. Last night, after drafting the basics of the ferrying scenario, Sam had said he’d place a call to get us the necessary technical crew and film equipment. I’d volunteered to check in with March Field to be certain all flight arrangements and protocol requirements were adequately covered. As a last step in our plan, we’d agreed on reconnoitering in Sam’s office later this morning to type up the ferrying scene in script format, then go as a team to see Novara for final approval.
That had been the plan before the unexpected disastrous end to our evening. Sam had been so weird when he threw me out of his house, I wasn’t sure what to expect now. Would he come through with his side of the arrangements? Would he do something to make me look bad?
I stared at the cracks in the plaster ceiling, looking for an alternative course of action. Preferably one that sidestepped my having contact with Sam Lorenz.
I got to work. First, I had to tie up the loose ends of the improvement measures I’d proposed.
Back in the telephone booth, I made the necessary calls to nail down the people I wanted to cast. I enlisted the commander of the New Castle AAF Base in Wilmington, Delaware. As someone who had more planes to move than he could handle, the WASP had come through for him time and time again. A staunch supporter, he was delighted for the chance to share his experiences.
I also got in touch with a number of pilots who offered to relay their experiences of flying with a WASP copilot. Most effective, I thought, would be an interview with the pilot who’d offered to talk about a heavy bomber experience. The positive things he had to say—especially since the plane he and a WASP had jointly flown was a B-24, a flying monster known for being notoriously hard to handle—was the exact kind of acclaim Miss C wanted our movie to project.
Highly regarded ground crewmen said they’d be happy to go before a camera and discuss their encounters with WASP. Their crew chief had enormous potential. He told me openly how, early in the war, he’d thought, and hoped, his dealings with women pilots would be short-lived. Instead, after working with WASP on a regular basis for the past year and a half, he’d had a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree change of heart. He raved about the professionalism, competence, and dedication he’d encountered. We needed to get it on film.
After securing permission to borrow an idle typewriter, I shouldered a borrowed canvas tote filled with carbon sheets and a ream of paper, then trudged with my load to my private dressing room office. The machine fit perfectly on Carole Landis’ dressing table.
Chapter Fourteen
At last, a rough shooting script for every one of the new or revamped scenarios had been completed. There was an original and one carbon copy each for Roland Novara, Sam Lorenz, and Miss C. I even mapped out a shooting schedule, including alternative dates, which I typed up for everyone as well.
It was late afternoon when I finished. Tempted to rest my tired bones and drained psyche across the room on the inviting blue satin couch, I resisted. Instead I gathered the discarded sheets of paper from the floor, scrunching them in my hands as I strolled to a wicker clothes hamper in the room’s far corner. My plan was to stash the discards until later when, less burdened by the items I’d hauled over from administration, I could dispose of the trash properly. I opened the lid. Someone else had gotten the brainstorm before me. Only it wasn’t stored rubbish I was looking at, but film cans.
Crunched paper cradled in one arm, I lifted the top reel out. My breath caught. UFA film. I peered deeper into the bin and saw five additional reels. What were German film cans doing inside a clothes hamper in Carole Landis’ dressing room? A version of the question and its ominous undertones had come to me in the hidden alcove off Della’s closet. Had someone moved the cans from the Dunns’ to here?
I returned the reel, flipped the lid of the hamper closed, and walked in a bewildered state toward the sofa. I spilled my crunched pages onto the satin cushions, unsure what to do next. The appearance in the doorway of MP Sergeant Winwar made my decision easy.
His gaze volleyed from the mess on the sofa to the typewriter on the vanity to me.
“These walls are thin,” he said, nodding to the blue-flocked wallpapered panel at my back. “Heard a tapping noise clear outside.” Tugging up his pistol belt, giving me a once over so slow and intense it was obscene, he took a few steps toward me. “Then I ain’t the one who should be doin’ the explainin’, am I?”