“Hello, my name is Horn. I spoke to you yesterday, remember? About the Shockley family?”
“Yes, sir. You’re the gentleman out in Los Angeles. Well, I looked around upstairs, where Mr. Beasley moved everything. It’s a mess up there, I tell you—”
“I’m sorry I had to put you out like that.”
“No, I don’t mind. Happy to do what I can to help your wife locate her relatives. Well, sir, I finally turned up our file on that family. You got a pencil?”
“I sure do.”
“All right, then. It’s Willis and Edith Shockley.” He gave Horn the address and phone number. “That’s out by McKinley Park, if you know the city.”
“Since this is old information, I guess there’s a chance they don’t live there anymore.”
“Well, sir, I can tell you they do.” Ernest sounded proud of himself. “I called the number, just to make sure. Spoke to Mr. Shockley himself. He’s a high school principal, and it turns out we’ve done some of the class photos for his school.”
“Ernest, that was very kind of you.”
“Least I can do. You know, for your wife and all.”
A minute later, with the help of the operator, Horn heard the phone ring in the Shockley residence, and a man answered.
“Mr. Shockley, my name is John Ray Horn, and I’m calling from Los Angeles.”
“Yes?” The man drew out the single syllable in a flat tone, and Horn thought he could already hear a barrier being thrown up. If it’s Los Angeles calling, he may have an idea what this is about.
“I apologize for disturbing you. I’m hoping I might speak to you about your daughter, Tess.”
“Are you the man who’s looking for a relative? Someone from Beasley’s called.”
“Well, I mentioned something about that. But it wasn’t exactly true. I thought it was the simplest way I could—”
“So you lied to him.”
“I made up a story so he would give me your phone number. I’m sorry that was necessary.”
“Are you with the police?”
“No.”
“One of those newspapermen?”
“No.”
“Then who are you?”
“I’m just…just a man. Someone who heard about your daughter’s death and thinks it might be connected with the death of another person.”
“Did you know my daughter?”
“No, sir.”
“Why should I talk to you?”
It was the question Horn had anticipated and feared. He had only one answer that might work.
“Mr. Shockley, would you like to know who killed Tess?”
For what seemed like minutes, Horn heard only the other man’s breathing. It sounded tired and ragged, an old man’s breathing. Then he heard what sounded like the scrape of chair legs and a weight settling in.
“How can you ask me that?”
“I’m sorry. This must be hard on you, I’m sure, but—”
“Of course I want to know.” He exhaled into the phone. A long breath, as if pent up for years. “Both of us did. Almost until the day my wife died, the thing she wanted most was just to know what happened to Tess. And why.”
“I didn’t know she had died. I’m sorry.”
“Five months ago.” A pause. “Do you have children, Mr. Horn?”
“Yes. A daughter.” It was only a small lie.
“Can you imagine losing her?”
In a way, you could say I have. But not like this. “No, I can’t.”
“Of course not. But then it happens, and…and you get an idea of Hell. Only God knows why Tess had to die, and He hasn’t chosen to let me know. I’m just glad I had my faith to keep me going. I wish I could say the same about my wife, but Edith lost her faith in everything the day we heard about Tessie.”
He paused to take a breath. Horn was somewhat surprised to hear the man confiding in him, but then he thought: Why not me? Sometimes it’s easier to talk to a stranger.
Shockley spoke again. “You said something about another person dying.”
“Yes, sir. A woman named Rose Galen—”
“Oh, God.” Horn heard the chair squeak violently, as if the man had been seized by some force. “Rose is dead?”
“You knew her?”
“Dear God. What happened to her?”
“I’m afraid someone killed her, in the room where she was living. How did you know her?”
“Edith called her our angel, because she was so kind to us after Tess’ death,” Shockley said, his voice thickened by emotion. “Rose got in touch with us, told us she and Tess had been friends, and offered her sympathy. At first she wrote, and then she called a few times. We stayed in touch with her over the years, off and on. Then, finally….” He stopped and cleared his throat.
Horn waited, but nothing happened. “Mr. Shockley?” he prompted.
“I’m sorry. This is not easy. About six months ago, a new letter arrived, and Rose said something strange. She asked us how we would feel if she were to tell us that she had some responsibility for Tess’ death. That was how she put it. Indirectly, as if she were asking our permission to tell us something terrible. We couldn’t face it. We couldn’t bear hearing that, if it was true. Edith and I talked about it, and she said hearing that kind of thing from Rose would be like reopening an old wound. I wrote back to Rose and said we no longer wanted to hear from her. We wished her well, but we didn’t want to know anything further. It was too painful.”
“I understand,” Horn said.
“Edith died soon after that. For a while, I wondered if Rose’s letter might have contributed to her death. Then I told myself to stop wondering. It did no good. Rose wrote one more time. I never opened the letter.”
“Did you go to the police? About Rose, I mean.”
“No.” He seemed surprised at the question. “I never considered it.”
“I’m sorry for all of this. I’ll try not to keep you much longer. Mr. Shockley, did Rose tell you anything about Tess’ friends, the kind of life she lived?”
“Oh, yes. She talked about the two of them double-dating college boys, going bowling, going to the drive-in. Rose, you know, was an established actress, and she was trying to help Tess with her own career. So far, Tess had gotten only small parts, but the studio was encouraging. She was getting invited to parties and things. Once, Rose told us, Tess went to the premiere of a new movie as the guest of Cecil B. De Mille and his wife. We thought that was nice, because Mr. De Mille has done some wonderful movies based on the Bible. We wondered why Tess never told us about that….”
“Maybe she didn’t want you to think she was bragging,” Horn said.
“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Shockley said. “We raised her to be modest.”
“Did Tess mention Rose?”
“Yes, but only in passing. In fact, it was something of a surprise when we found out later that they had been so close. In her letters, Tess mostly talked about how hard it was getting started out there. But she always told us she was enjoying herself and for us not to worry.”
“Do you still have the letters from Rose?”
“Yes. Somewhere.”
“Do you think I might see them?”
“I don’t know….”
“I would greatly appreciate it. Mr. Shockley, I realize you’ve got no reason to trust me. I’m just a voice on the phone. But I swear to you I want to find out who killed Rose. And despite what you’ve told me, I believe you still want to know what happened to your daughter. Maybe Rose was responsible, but maybe it was more complicated than that. And if, along the way, I turn up anything about Tess’ killer—and if you decide you want to know—I’ll share it with you.”
“Why do you think there’s any connection—”
“Between the two deaths? I’m not sure. It’s kind of an instinct, you might say. Sir, if you think of anything else that might help me, would you call me, collect?” Horn gave him his phone number, then added his mailing address.
&nbs
p; “I have a feeling you’re not telling me everything,” Shockley said. “But I’m not sure I care. I only want to find some way to put all this to rest.”
“I know.”
After the other man hung up, Horn sat on his couch holding the receiver for a few moments until the dial tone interrupted his thoughts.
Whatever your daughter was doing,he said silently to Willis Shockley, I don’t think it involved going bowling with college boys.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
He found Dolores Winter’s address on a quiet, narrow street in the Hollywood Hills. Those who inhabited the highest reaches of the Hollywood firmament tended to live in Beverly Hills, a place of emerald-green lawns and busy yard men and shiny Packards and Cadillacs and more exotic conveyances parked in the driveways. Dolores Winter’s hillside home was not nearly that grand, but it was elegant and expensive-looking by his standards.
Just off the street, he found the number set in Spanish tile on a high, peach-colored stucco wall interrupted by a heavy wooden door. He knocked and, when no one answered, opened it. Inside was a small, lush garden with a fountain rimmed by the same green and yellow tile.
To the right, the garden sloped up through a series of narrow terraces topped by a large eucalyptus tree that threw its shadow over the entire front of the house. On one of the terraces a man was working. He was large and pale-haired and thick-chested and wore only a pair of shorts and sandals, and he was intent on setting what looked like fifty-pound stones in between the jade plants and flowering bushes that ranged along each of the terraces.
“Excuse me,” Horn called up to the man. “I’m looking for Miss Winter.”
The man straightened up, turned, and slowly picked his way down the terraces to the garden floor. Wiping his hand on his shorts, he extended it as he wiped the sweat from his face with the other. “Lewis De Loach,” he said. “Doll’s inside with the others. Knock loud and they’ll hear you.”
The hand was calloused and hard. De Loach’s face could have been called boyish were it not for the strong jaw line. His pale complexion had been left slightly pink by the feeble winter sun. “You used to work at Medallion, didn’t you?” he asked.
“Uh-huh,” Horn said. “Now I do other things. How about you?”
“Screenwriter. These days, I like to tell people I’m taking stock of my career. That’s a way of saying I’m between jobs.”
“Happens a lot in this town,” Horn said.
“I knew a couple of the writers at your studio,” the man said. “No offense, but it all sounded very formulaic to me, the things they did.”
“That’s Medallion, all right,” Horn said with a grin. “If it works, stick with it.”
De Loach gave a wave and climbed back up to his rocks. Horn approached the front door. The house, done in the popular Spanish style, echoed the peach of the outer wall, reminding him of a candy he had enjoyed as a child and how its artificial color would stain his fingers. He knocked hard on the wooden door and heard a voice call out from inside. A moment later, Dolores Winter opened the door.
“The cowboy,” she said with a grin, tossing her hair out of her face. She wore a sailor’s striped boat-neck pullover with canvas deck shoes and a pair of trim, well-cut white slacks. Her hair was loose. “Come on in. Dexter and Evelyn are here.”
She took him through a tiled entryway that led directly back to a patio, where a table was set up amid ficus trees and more flowering plants. He shook hands with Dexter Diggs and went over to give a hug to Evelyn, whom he’d not seen since before his time in prison.
Evelyn, who had possessed what her husband called a motherly look ever since her thirties, took his face in her hands, gently avoiding the bandaged area, and looked at him for a long moment. “Are you all right?” she asked.
“Hell, Evelyn, I’m fine,” he said, a little too brusquely. “Had a little accident working around the house. But it does me good to see you.”
“You look skinny,” she said. “Come over for dinner sometime.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said dutifully as he took a seat.
Dolores Winter was watching the exchange with an unreadable expression. “Didn’t know this character had so many friends,” she said. “First time I met him, I didn’t like his looks. I was ready to take a swing at him just on general principles.”
“Might have done him some good,” Diggs said.
“If you’ll remember, Miss Winter,” Horn said, “I liked your looks right from the beginning.”
“If you don’t start calling me Doll,” she said menacingly, “things are going to get nasty around here. Now, who’s hungry?”
A Mexican maid in a brightly colored peasant dress brought out cold drinks followed by shrimp cocktails on ice. The three guests had mixed drinks while their hostess had iced tea.
“Love to join you, but no booze for me for a while,” Doll said. “I’ve got a movie coming up. We go into pre-production in a few days, and I want to make sure I can get into the outfits.”
“What is it?”
“Yukon Queen. From a Jack London story. I’m a dance hall hostess. With a tragic past and a heart of gold.” She made a face.
“You don’t want to do it,” Diggs said.
“Well, it’s got a nice budget, and we’re borrowing Bob Taylor from MGM to be my leading man. And ain’t he something? But…I don’t want to do madams and hostesses and bar girls and hookers all my life. And did I mention big sisters and wisecracking shopgirls?”
“It’s your own fault,” Diggs said, “for being so good in Tropic Wind. What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “But every time I see a really good part going to Davis or Crawford over at Warners, something with red meat in it, I think: I could have done that. Even Missy Stanwyck—did you see Sorry, Wrong Number? God, I’d like to have gotten my teeth into that one. I wouldn’t have played her spineless and whimpering all the way through. I know she’s an invalid, but she should be a stronger personality at the beginning, loving and capable, and then slowly come apart until, at the end, she’s this screaming mess.”
“Interesting,” Diggs said. “I’d like to have seen your version.”
“Me too.” Doll adopted a wicked grin. “So, I march into Ben Greene’s office and tell him exactly what kind of part I want. And the old weasel takes my hand in his paws, gazes into my eyes, and tells me how much he loves my talent. But it’s a unique talent, he says, one that those schmucks Louis B. Mayer and Jack Warner could never appreciate. Then he tells me how his writers are working overtime to provide the perfect vehicle for my oh-so-unique talent. And meanwhile, he says, while we’re waiting for that vehicle to pull up at the curb, he’d like me to do just one more gum-chewing girl reporter, business tycoon’s mistress, or whore with a heart of…you know.”
She stopped, aware that everyone was staring at her. The maid appeared with steaming bowls of chowder. “Hell with it,” Doll said. “Down the hatch.” She lifted her iced tea. “Let’s have a good time, and stop talking about how poor little girls get trampled by the studio system. What am I complaining about? I’m doing leading roles now, and I’ve got it better than most gals. Let’s talk about the rest of you.”
The conversation meandered for a while. When Doll tried to steer things around to Horn, he politely deflected her. He didn’t want to get into his illustrious acting career, his failed marriage, or his unemployability. So she turned to her other guests, who were happy to talk about their children and grandchildren. Then Diggs lit on a favorite item of gossip: the story of Bernard Rome, the head of Medallion Pictures, and his fateful affair with the blonde skier. Doll, it turned out, hadn’t heard the story.
“Mister Rome, who was a widower then, went to the 1932 Winter Olympics at Lake Placid, and he came back with this young blonde on his arm,” Diggs recounted. “Hannelore Flik was her name. She had been part of the support crew for the Austrian ski team, but he began referring to her as an Olympic skier. Not only that, he had told her
she was a natural for the movies, and the poor girl fell for it. She married the old man—she was about the same age as his son, Bernie Junior—and Mister Rome quickly changed her name to Helen Fleet and began grooming her for parts.
“Two problems, though. For one, she couldn’t act worth a damn. For another, there wasn’t much demand for ski movies. That didn’t stop him, though. He started ordering them up, one a year. His writers went crazy looking for ways to work skiing into the story. In one, she’d be a ski instructor who falls in love with the rich boy she’s instructing. In another, she’s a novice who falls in love with her handsome ski instructor. Then the war came along, and they got more creative. In Nordic Escape, she’s a resistance fighter who skis her way to freedom. You get the idea.”
“Now I know who she is,” Doll said. “In her movies, she always wears those little sweaters trimmed in fur, just like one of Santa’s helpers.”
“That’s her. Some of the wiseacres at Medallion call her the Viennese Pastry. Every blessed one of her movies has lost money. Whenever the stockholders meet, they ask Mister Rome how much longer he’s going to make a fool of himself. He draws himself up to his full five feet five inches and proclaims, “She’s my wife. I love her.”
“Well, bless his heart,” Doll said. “A fool for love. Who wants another drink?”
They heard the front door open, and De Loach looked out into the patio. His legs and chest were caked in sweat and dirt. “Pardon my filth, everybody,” he said to the group. Then, to Doll: “I’m going to the hardware store for a few things. You need anything on the way?”
“Pick up some fresh oranges and lemons, sweetie,” she said to him. “And bring me a part. A good one this time. Something about a beautiful woman with a brain tumor who…. Wait a minute. Bette Davis has done that one. Never mind; just oranges and lemons.”
“Say the bells of St. Clements,” he sang slowly in a precise tenor. “Isn’t that an old nursery rhyme? I’ll be back soon.”
“Poor Lewis,” Doll said to them after he had gone. “He’s trying to stop drinking—he doesn’t mind my talking about it; he’ll tell you himself. And the only way he can take his mind off it is to stay busy, run errands, or go out in the garden and move boulders. That, or drive over to Muscle Beach and lift lovely young things over his head.”
While I Disappear Page 18
