Hollywood Buzz

by Margit Liesche

  We’d been close to being skewered. The smart thing would have been to investigate promptly. But Ilka looked as exhausted as I felt.

  “I understand. And we both have big days tomorrow. The briefie—”

  Ilka managed a smile. “Yes, will you come?”

  “I’m going to try. Would you like me to drive one of your charges home?”

  “No. But thank you kindly. I will take them. See you at the house shortly.”

  The doorman had been standing by with a world-weary expression as if he’d seen it all before. He handed Ilka the keys. While Ilka helped her aged fan into the back seat, I walked Lugosi around the car, opening the passenger door and inviting him to climb in.

  He chuckled, sitting and folding his long legs inside. “Ahhh, like me, my enemies are getting sloppy. He should have known it vould take a vodden stake through my heart to kill me.”

  I laughed. But I had an unsettled feeling the attack had not been directed at Lugosi.

  Chapter Sixteen

  A blast of peptic acid seared the lining of my stomach as I walked through the typing pool. Ilka’s Finn coffee. Ilka had left the coffee pot, ready for brewing, on the burner this morning with a note explaining she was going to try to sleep in. Her briefie was today and she needed to look her best.

  Last night I had waited up for her, but gave in to my own desperate need for some shut eye around midnight. My flight in the P-51 was on for this afternoon. This morning, first thing, I’d placed another call to Miss C. I would have preferred telling her in person, but she’d been out again. So I left a brief message for her about Frankie with the hotel receptionist, adding, “Leave word with Major Beacock if there’s anything you need to tell me before the film shoot.”

  Gunnar had not made it back to the Dunns’, but he’d agreed to continue our discussion concerning Brody and related espionage matters on the flight over to March. I couldn’t escape the feeling that last night’s attempted assault had been directed at me. I also suspected there might be a link to the Brody investigation. We were meeting after Ilka’s performance at MGM and I would share my theory then.

  It was Saturday morning. The gals in the secretarial pool were off for the weekend, and there was no one around to disturb me as I tidied up paperwork and planned to phone Novara for his reactions to the script revisions I’d sent over.

  A single cup of Finn coffee should have been enough, but I’d gulped down two. Another acid surge assaulted my stomach as I waited for Novara to pick up. He had barely been willing to listen until Sam had interceded on my behalf—what made me think he’d be responsive now?

  “Pucci, sweetheart. Glad you called.” Novara sounded genuinely delighted to hear from me. So much so, he was practically purring.

  What did that mean? I braced myself.

  “Read the new scenes. Gotta hand it to ya, kid. They’re swell, heh heh, swell.”

  Incredible. What Sam had said the other day about the movie business—“One day you’re in, next, you’re out”—was true. This morning, it seemed, I was IN.

  “You like them? Great. Going to go with them, then?” I crossed my fingers.

  “You betcha.” Novara cleared his throat. “The playful stuff with the gals in shorts and all was a grabber, but this new stuff, well, it’s got more going for it, know what I mean?”

  I absolutely did. It meant that the film was going to be a true depiction of what the WASP is doing for the war effort. I nearly clapped with delight.

  “You see, things turn out for the best,” Novara continued. “With this bang-up job you’ve done, the segments are ready to start filming, almost straightaway—without much additional effort from me. A hunky-dory result, since the Clark Gable project needs all I’ve got to give, pronto.”

  I wondered what effort he thought he’d put forth for our film in the first place, but turned to a more pressing concern eating at me instead.

  “Have you talked to Sam Lorenz about any of this?”

  “Uh-huh. Got off the horn with him, right before you called. Which is another reason it’s so nifty what you did. He couldn’t have done that script revision even if someone had been wavin’ an Academy Award in his face. Those writers.” Novara sighed. “Always reaching for the little white powders when things get rough. He could barely put together a lucid sentence.”

  “Sam Lorenz on drugs?”

  “Get your head out of the clouds, kiddo…What is it?” There was dead air for a moment, then the muffled sounds of Novara talking with someone on the other end of the line. Something about shoes? An instant later, he was back on.

  “Gotta hurry, now, sweetheart. Where were we? Oh, yeah, Sam Lorenz. He was supposed to ride out to March Field with me for the ferrying segment. But he won’t be going. No matter. Man oh man, I’m looking forward to seeing that new fighter in action. Break a leg up there, or whatever it is you pilots say.”

  “Uh-hmm.”

  “Something else?”

  Why push my luck. “Nope.”

  ***

  I left the phone booth and walked through the deserted office space, feeling both euphoric and troubled. Novara’s report on his conversation with Sam nagged at me. I hadn’t questioned his assumption that Sam was on drugs—the black mark against Sam worked in my favor—but Sam a hophead? The notion surprised me, but it also explained his erratic behavior the other night. I sighed. The bizarre attempt at dancing. His shock at seeing someone at the window. Perhaps there’d been no one there at all. He’d been hallucinating.

  I stopped at my desk briefly, then proceeded outdoors to a gorgeous morning.

  Thoughts of the wacky evening with Sam persisted on the walk from the administration building to the parking space where I’d left the Packard. An image of Sam at May Lee’s flashed to mind. The flushed coloring of his face that I’d attributed to alcohol, a symptom of drugs? The nervous scratching, also related? At another vision, this one of a sickly-looking Sam visiting the hospital, my toe caught on an uneven portion of pavement and I tripped, luckily recovering before I tumbled.

  Well, so what if he was an addict? I’d washed my hands of him. He wasn’t my problem any longer. At least not on a personal level. There was still what he knew about Frankie’s crash to deal with. But maybe Max would have some answers. Or Miss C.

  My spirits picked up as I caught sight of the Packard’s dark green and chrome exterior, the cut-down doors, the tan leather interior. The runabout was a sporty dream machine, especially the way it looked now, top down. I loved the car and would miss it terribly when my mission was over.

  “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning” was playing on the radio as I motored out of Fort Roach, then down Washington toward MGM. I put my soul into singing along with “everything’s going my way…”

  ***

  Gus wasn’t at his newsstand when I rolled past. Apparently, he had taken the day off as well. A dark-haired fellow with a walrus mustache was standing in for him. I didn’t stop. If Gus had been there, I definitely would have, but the sooner I got to MGM the better. I wanted to see as much of Ilka’s picture as possible before flying out to March Field.

  ***

  I parked the Packard in a lot behind the executive office building. I got my bearings and began the short journey to Sound Stage 5. There were few people about, but the tall, thin woman wearing a smart black suit, long red gloves, and fashionable pumps walking toward me would have stood out, even in a crowd. Her face was familiar, but I didn’t place her right away. She was nearly abreast of me when it hit. Wilma Wallace, the OWI representative. But with an entirely new look. When we’d met three days ago in Brody’s office, her hair had been secured in a severe bun. She’d worn thick, horn-rimmed glasses. Now her longish ash-blonde hair hung in tight defined waves. Her pencil-lined blue eyes popped between lashes lush with mascara; her lips, painted an alluring bright red, picked up the shade in her gloves. What was equally if not more arresting was that I’d seen Wilma in this glammed-up pers
ona before. The woman in the incriminating photo with Brody.

  “Hello, Miss Wallace.” She paused and squinted, trying to place me. “We met the other day at the story meeting. Adrift with the Enemy. I was just observing.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “Mr. Brody invited me.” At the mention of the director’s name, she turned away. “Sorry, you must miss him.” She nodded, sniffled, dabbed a gloved finger to her nose.

  “You look nice.”

  When she turned back, she smiled, but there was a glum edge to her expression. “Why, thank you. I have a friend in the make-up department.” She finger-combed a side of her hair. “Ordinarily, I wouldn’t dream of showing my nonbusiness side in the daytime. But the other evening I ventured out to a fundraiser. A palm reader there was incredibly gifted. If you think my outside has been transformed, well, there’ve been inner changes too.”

  Had Ilka read Wilma Wallace’s palm? It appeared that way. The serendipity was uncanny. My astonishment must have shown.

  This time her smile was genuine. “It’s true. Through studying the pattern on my hand, she revealed things about myself I’d forgotten or ignored or hadn’t recognized. She asked questions and we talked. She helped me to uncover my calling. She encouraged me not to hide who I am. To know that I can be feminine in my appearance and still get things done.”

  “Bravo.” I echoed what I knew Miss C would say. “That’s wonderful.”

  The pearl bracelet Wallace had worn in Brody’s office adorned her gloved arm. The contrast of the smooth creamy gems against the red fabric seemed to reflect her new mindset: power and grace combined.

  She polished a pearl with her finger, and from the look on her face I guessed the bracelet had been a gift from Brody. “I believe we are all on this earth to touch others’ lives in positive ways. I’ve quit OWI and applied to join the WAC. I want to drive an ambulance on the front, devote myself to a meaningful cause. Step away from my Movieland fantasy existence. Find peace. Maybe learn to forgive myself.”

  Wallace had been so absorbed in the bracelet and conveying her thoughts, it was as if she’d forgotten I was there. She looked up. “Oh, sorry.” She blinked. “Of course, if the WAC assigns me to ambulance driving, I’ll be back to wearing a uniform and my glasses.” She smiled.

  Wallace was trying to find a silver lining. But leave town? Did Gunnar know about this?

  Ilka might be psychic, but I was getting a strange foreboding sensation myself. Could the enemy operatives involved in espionage and Brody’s death also be saboteurs? Was their mission somehow tied to what happened to Frankie?

  “Miss Wallace, this is very delicate and I’m sorry to have to ask. But a friend of mine died yesterday, also under suspicious circumstances.” She looked at me wide-eyed. “Yes, I know signs point to Mr. Brody having been murdered. I’m part of a team investigating. I also know, uh, sorry, that you and he were, well…in love.” My face felt hot and I knew my coloring was closing in on the shade of her gloves. “Was anyone else wise to what was going on?”

  Wilma’s lips had gone dry and her lipstick was caked. She circled her mouth with her tongue. “No one.”

  “Please think. It’s critical to our inquiry. You want us to find the killer, don’t you?” If she didn’t, that would be telling.

  Her eyes shifted. “Well, possibly Myra,” she conceded. “Secretaries seem to know everything.”

  ***

  I hoofed it down a side street toward Sound Stage 5.

  Things were much quieter than when I’d first visited the MGM lot. Probably fewer people worked on the weekend. I thought of the secret memo’s description of the UFA Studio’s round-the-clock schedule and hoped that there was more going on inside the surrounding buildings than was visible to the naked eye outside.

  Three men in tee-shirts and jeans rounded the corner just ahead and came toward me carrying rolled up cords, cables, and a camera. From their equipment, I guessed they were grips or electricians. We all reached the door at once. Their arms were full. I held the door for them. They were part of the film crew. The trio couldn’t tell me the briefie’s subject matter, but their faces broke into devilish grins when they reported that nine starlets were participating in the shoot.

  Nine starlets? A two-minute production? Not exactly a “star maker” opportunity for Ilka.

  I trailed them to a lighted set about halfway down the cavernous sound stage. They threaded their way through the clutter of people and equipment already surrounding the set, while I halted at a spot ideal for observing the goings on.

  The set was a replica of an office interior. A sterile office interior. Eight gorgeous young ladies, starlets, I presumed from what the grips had told me, were seated on a long bench. The bench was the centerpiece of the set’s furnishings. On the wall behind the starlets, Uncle Sam in tall hat and stars and stripes pointed accusingly from a large poster that read: SILK & NYLON STOCKINGS FOR UNCLE SAM. A waist-high round trash canister overflowing with stockings stood next to the benched ladies.

  I looked at the lineup more closely. They all wore dresses and high-heeled shoes. Ilka was not among them. Then I saw her, a large straw basket hooked on her arm, off to one side of the set. She was the only blonde of the bunch and her platinum hair was pulled into the compulsory upsweep.

  A man in a white dress shirt and dark pleated trousers was giving the women instruction. I gave a discreet wave, trying to catch Ilka’s attention, but she was glomming on to his every word, like the other gals, and didn’t notice.

  After a few moments, the man walked to the camera facing the set. The camera sat atop a crane-like arm attached to a movable dolly. A seat for the cameraman was mounted on the adjustable arm, and the man who’d been giving direction to the girls slid onto it. After peering through the camera lens and studying the set, he made a few adjustments. He dismounted and turned so I had a full view of him. Mid-fifties, he had the droopy expression of an aging beagle. His dark hair had thinned to a few strands on top and there were prominent bags under his eyes.

  Settling into a tall chair slung with a canvas seat emblazoned with DIRECTOR, he lifted a megaphone to his mouth. “All right, let’s have a rehearsal.”

  The set grew quiet. He shouted into the megaphone again. “Ruthie, where are you?”

  “Here,” a female voice chimed from across the set.

  A middle-aged woman with thick glasses perched atop dark straight hair was picking her way through the sprawl of technicians, grips, and equipment. Toting a clipboard in the crook of her elbow and wearing a stopwatch around her neck, she might have been a gym teacher or swim coach.

  “Got the script?” the director asked.

  Ruthie nodded, sidling in close to his chair.

  The director pointed the megaphone at the line of starlets and spoke loudly. “All right. This briefie we’re doing here this morning has only four scenes. The three involving you gals run back to back. We’re going to do all three, boom, boom, boom. Got it?”

  A gal on the end opposite Ilka said something in an undertone. There was some murmuring from the other starlets.

  The director, ignoring the disruption added, “Fourth scene will be spliced in later.”

  “How about splicing in some furnishings for the set?” One of the ladies wisecracked. The others giggled.

  “I got news for you, Charlene. This isn’t supposed to be the parlor of some Southern plantation. And you’re not Vivien Leigh.”

  The director’s retort unleashed some teasing comments and more laughter. Even Ilka, who’d remained silent and unsmiling at her post to the side, could not contain a broad grin.

  Aware his control was ebbing at a dangerous rate, the director bellowed, “That goes double for the rest of you. Stop acting like a bunch of dizzy belles waiting for your beaux to come and escort you out for a spin around the ballroom.”

  Naturally, the admonishment only egged the girls on more. The director’s face turned borscht red. It ast
ounded me that when he took another stab at quieting his unruly cast, he stuck with the same tack.

  “We’re not doing a remake of Gone with the Wind here,” he screeched through the megaphone, invoking yet another twist on the laughable analogy. “We’re doing Uncle Sam Wants Your Old Stockings to Sock the Axis.”

  I knew a director worked with cast members to help them understand his sense of vision for the film, but what was he going for here? Mass hysteria? I grinned. Listen to me! My concept gets approved for a film and what happens? Poof! I think I’m Master Director.

  Pandemonium threatening, the director at last changed his approach. “Ladies,” he said in a strained whisper that required absolute quiet to hear. “We’re going for austerity here, because this piece is about sacrificing for the war effort. What we’re about to do may help save lives and win the war. It may help bring our men home sooner.” Then, as an aside, in a more forceful voice he added, “Perhaps you should practice some austerity with your mouths.”

  The entire set became somber.

  “No, no, no,” the director bawled. “I want an austere setting! Not grim faces. I want pert! Perky! Not murrrky!”

  The director’s emotional rantings—particularly the way his jowls shook with his exaggeration of the word “murky”—were so overblown, they made me smile. I once had a flight instructor who was a pussycat underneath his gruff exterior. The director reminded me of him.

  Fortunately, the ladies under the lights were taking the situation with a grain of salt as well. Posed quietly now, they awaited further direction.

  “Okay. Let’s get started. Everyone, right leg over left.”

  The ladies sat up straight, crossed their legs, and stared into the camera lens.

  “Nice,” the director said after a moment. “I think we’re ready. Ruthie will read the narration for the rehearsal. Bette Davis will be the voice in the final cut.”

  Another stir rippled through the starlets at the mention of the famous actress.

  Impatiently, the director shouted, “Knock it off! I’ll see to it you gals never get a big-time role if you can’t give me what I want here!” The starlets responded with instant silence. “Now, let’s see what you can do. Ruthie, go!”