Silent Murders (3 page)

“Don’t tell Douglas,” she said with an exaggerated wink. “He disapproves of alcohol. Usually I try to accommodate him, but, well, sometimes I get tired of pleasing everyone else.”

At that moment, her attention was drawn to someone behind me. I turned to see her younger sister, Lottie Pickford, making her way unsteadily toward us. Lottie wore a wild look as she clutched at Mary’s arm.

“Lottie, what on earth—”

“Can you—have you—” Her eyes darted around the room, frantically searching right and left.

“Lottie, darling, I’d like you to meet…” But Lottie must have spotted the person she was looking for, because she stumbled toward the stairs without uttering another syllable. A few steps away, Douglas took in the entire scene. His well-disciplined actor’s features failed him for a moment and his eyes narrowed to dark slits. His lips tightened. With a jolt of surprise, I read disgust on his face. Clearly, Douglas despised his sister-in-law.

“I’m sorry…” Miss Pickford began, but I waved off her apology.

“I already know Lottie from
Son of Zorro
.” Lottie had a small but significant role in the picture as Lola, the pretty servant girl who serves as a spy in Don Fabrique’s employ and uncovers the blackmail plot. Lottie was usually late to work and often petulant, but no one dared reprimand the sister-in-law of Douglas Fairbanks. Only now did I realize his courteous treatment of her on the set masked his true feelings. And as I watched Lottie’s behavior, I understood the reason for his contempt. Douglas Fairbanks despised liquor, and Lottie was a drunkard.

“Oh, of course you do. I forgot, you work for Frank Richardson now. Well, excuse Lottie’s bad manners tonight, I’m afraid she’s dealing with some—”

Whatever she was going to say was interrupted by a shrill scream and the sound of pottery breaking into a hundred pieces, followed by furious accusations from the other end of the room. Too short to see and too curious for my own good, I stepped up on one of the chairs that had been pushed against the wall.

Two women in sparkling gowns were hurling insults until one of them, the older one, lost all sense of decency and pulled back her bejeweled hand. With a lightning movement, she smacked the younger woman across the face, pushed through the throng toward the door, and stormed into the night. The victim staggered but did not fall, thanks to the quick reaction of a couple of men nearby who held her close. The stunned silence quickly filled with a babble of conversation as the guests analyzed the spat.

“Seems like a disagreement,” I said lamely, stepping down off the chair. “I wonder who that was.”

Miss Pickford sipped her champagne calmly. “That was Faye Gordon who just left.” I looked surprised, as little Mary Pickford could not have seen over the heads to the other side of the room. She read the question in my eyes and gave a rueful smile. “I recognized her voice, and throwing breakables has become something of a trademark with Faye. Poor dear, she has had some bad luck lately, but she should learn to keep her temper in check, at least in public. And this,” she said grandly as an attractive couple approached us, “this handsome man is my darling brother Jack and his wife, Marilyn Miller.”

Compared to their famous sister, Jack and Lottie Pickford were amateurs, but they were good-looking and competent enough on-screen. Marilyn Miller and I were almost the same age, and I knew her from vaudeville. When she didn’t seem to recognize me, I tried to spark her memory by saying, “It’s so good to see you again, Marilyn. You may not remember, but we knew one another some years ago in vaudeville when we were children. You were touring with your family as the Five Columbians and my mother and I had a mother-daughter act.”

She didn’t respond. A little embarrassed, I tried again, “Remember how we were always dodging the sticklers who were trying to enforce the child labor laws?”

Then I looked at her more closely and noticed the empty eyes—her pupils were deep black pools so large I couldn’t tell what color her irises were—and I guessed why so many party guests were going upstairs. Bruno Heilmann might flaunt the Prohibition laws downstairs, but even he couldn’t be so cavalier about narcotics. I looked back at Jack Pickford. His pupils were enormous, as well. Cocaine or hashish, probably, although I’d seen enough heroin and morphine since I’d come to Hollywood to know those were popular party fare, too.

Marilyn and Jack did not incline toward conversation, at least not with me. Jack made a curt remark to his sister, then pulled his wife to the front hall where he erupted into a tirade, berating the stone-faced butler who had brought down the wrong wraps.

Miss Pickford didn’t appear to notice. She reached toward Douglas, who was still chatting with Myrna and two other fawning women. “Duber, let’s go or we’ll be late to the Gishes.” She turned back to me. “Douglas was right when he said I would enjoy meeting you, Jessie. I’m sure we’ll see you around town in the near future, and we can talk again about vaudeville. Excuse us, please, we have another stop tonight before we can go home and relax.”

The crowd did a Red Sea parting as the Hollywood royalty made for the exit. The champagne waitress passed again, this time giving me a long, measured look that I found disconcerting. Myrna lifted two glasses off her tray. “Here, let’s toast! To the most exciting night of my life!” She bubbled more than the champagne. “Imagine, little Myrna Williams—I mean, Loy—talking to Douglas Fairbanks for ten whole minutes! No one would believe it back home in Montana. And did you get to meet Jack Pickford? Isn’t he a dream?”

“Actually, we were introduced, but he wasn’t in a sociable mood.”

“Do you know the scandal about his first wife’s death? You must remember! It was all over the newspapers about five years ago. Olive Thomas was her name. She was a real vamp, very, very gorgeous and a big star.”

Who hadn’t heard the tale? Actually knowing some of the people involved brought the story closer to home. I remembered Olive Thomas from her pictures and from her mysterious death in Paris.

Myrna continued. “I was only fourteen at the time, but I read all about it in the magazines. I never believed Jack’s claim for a minute. You tell me, please, how anyone could accidentally drink an entire quart of nasty-tasting toilet-cleaning solution at three
A.M.
without noticing something tasted funny. Did you think it was suicide or murder?”

“I never could decide. The reports I read said it wasn’t toilet cleaner, that Jack had lied so the press wouldn’t learn the truth and ruin his career.”

“What was it?”

“Bichloride of mercury. You know what that’s for, don’t you?” I had understood the sexual implications at the time, but Myrna was younger and probably never caught on. “Syphilis,” I told her. “I kind of thought that maybe her death really
was
accidental, that both of them were so high on cocaine and booze that they didn’t know what they were doing.”

“I overheard my mother and her friends talking about it. One of the neighbors insisted that it was suicide, that Olive was depressed over their awful marriage. Another thought Jack murdered her. My mother still thinks that she was planning to poison Jack, but drank it herself instead by mistake, but that sounds impossible. I guess no one will ever know the truth.”

“The French police certainly didn’t bother to find out. They couldn’t send the body home fast enough. The sad thing was that all those tales of wild living spilled over to Mary Pickford, dragging her name through the mud along with Jack’s, even though she wasn’t within a thousand miles of Paris and had nothing to do with any of it.”

“Gosh,” said Myrna, “that’s not fair. Anyway, I’m surprised to see Jack and Marilyn together tonight. This month’s
Photoplay
says they are getting a divorce, but they looked happy enough tonight.”

“Myrna, those magazines are full of lies. You can’t believe a word they print. All these big actors have press agents who’ll say anything to get publicity. They make up ninety percent of it. Here, I’ll prove it. You know how everyone says Douglas Fairbanks does all his own stunts? Well, he does most of them, true, but I’ve seen a stuntman do a few.”

“Really?”

“Excuse me, don’t I know you?” A woman wearing a short, chic gown came up to Myrna and me. “Weren’t you at Pickfair last Christmas?”

Before I could respond, two young men cruised over. “Haven’t we met before?” asked the one with the dimples. “Of course we have,” said his friend, answering for me, “at the Montmartre that night Rudy was doing the tango, wasn’t it?”

The cynic in me knew exactly what had prompted the sudden spike in our popularity—people had seen Douglas Fairbanks and the Pickfords talking to us and assumed we were “somebody.” Somebody they couldn’t quite place … Thus elevated to the ranks of the Hollywood elite for a few short hours, Myrna and I basked in our new status like two Cinderellas before the final stroke of midnight returned us to reality.

3

It wasn’t until after eleven that I finally saw our host. Bruno Heilmann approached our little circle and graciously nodded to me. It was as close as we had been all evening, and I was glad to have the opportunity to thank him for the invitation.

“Good evening, Mr. Heilmann,” I began. “This is my friend Myrna Loy. Thank you so much for inviting us. We’ve been enjoying ourselves immensely tonight.”

Bruno Heilmann had only to glance at Myrna’s rapturous expression to know the truth of that statement. He was a big, attractive man in his early forties, I guessed, but as I examined his broad forehead, his large eyes behind round-rimmed glasses, his straight nose and strong jaw, it occurred to me that his appeal stemmed more from his authority than from his appearance. Power always looks handsome, and this was a powerful man, one who worked for Hollywood’s most powerful studio, Paramount, for the most powerful studio boss, Adolph Zukor. He flattered Myrna for a moment with some pleasantries, then turned to me.

“So, you are no longer Douglas’s little assistant, ja?” As he spoke, his eyes dropped from my face to my legs, then moved up slowly, pausing at my breasts before returning to my face. I felt naked.

“I’m afraid not,” I said, pretending I hadn’t noticed but blushing in spite of myself. “His regular girl will be back on the job on Monday.”

“Then you are out of work, no? Perhaps I haf something for you. A pretty girl like you must haf many talents,” he said, lightly brushing my cheek with his knuckles.

I didn’t like the way he said it. I didn’t like the way he looked me over. And it was all I could do not to flinch at his touch. Now I knew what motives had prompted his impulsive invitation. And just a couple of hours ago I had been thinking Myrna was naïve!

“Thank you very much, but I’ll be returning to work as assistant script girl at
Son of Zorro.
”

“Assistant script girl? Tsk-tsk. You look more capable than such a lowly job. I am certain we could find something more suited to your talents at Paramount.”

“I am really quite happy where I am, thank you.”

“And how is the new Zorro picture coming?”

How gullible did he think I was? I would not be dragged into a conversation that divulged anything about our films to a rival studio. “Right on schedule, Mr. Heilmann. Everything’s smooth sailing so far.”

“So you will still be … ah,
working
for the great Fairbanks?”

I knew what he was insinuating, the swine. Plenty of people had seen me going in and out of Douglas’s dressing room over the past few weeks, and the gossip had obviously reached Heilmann. He probably had an informer on the Zorro set. It was not uncommon for studios to place their own people at competing studios or bribe one of the production staff to report on developments. I felt my face grow warm. Douglas Fairbanks was America’s hero, even if he was in his forties. I’d read the shameless letters that women all over the world wrote to him. I’d seen the beautiful leading ladies who surrounded him every day. But Douglas Fairbanks’s love for Mary Pickford was the stuff of legends, like Tristan and Isolde, Romeo and Juliet, or Anthony and Cleopatra. He hardly noticed the women he kissed on screen. He certainly didn’t notice me, not in that way.

Before I could respond, Lottie Pickford bumped hard into Myrna from behind. “Oh!” gasped Myrna as her champagne glass flew out of her hand and splintered on the floor, spattering Heilmann and several guests. Lottie looked like a madwoman, her pretty cheeks blotchy with rage. I couldn’t tell if she had stumbled into Myrna or pushed her on purpose. Tears had smudged her kohl makeup, but she wasn’t crying now.

With a string of profanity a sailor would envy, Lottie threw garbled accusations at Heilmann that he did not wait to catch. Sending an apologetic glance in my direction, he grabbed her elbow to steer her away, but not before everyone in the room heard her snarl, “The little tramp … treat me like that … I could still … bastard … I could
kill
you…”

Myrna and I did our best to melt into the wall as Heilmann dragged Lottie up the stairs.

“Parties certainly are lively around here,” I said to Myrna. “Let’s get some more food and go out back to the music. It’s so smoky in here, I could use some fresh air.”

We threaded through the hazy crush to the dining room table where I filled my plate with mushrooms stuffed with crab and cheese, asparagus tips, little oval slices of lamb and turkey, olives, Waldorf salad, and other delicious bites I couldn’t recognize. I continued on through the French doors. When I turned around, Myrna had vanished. It took me a moment, then I spotted her huge grin. She was talking with a very tall young man, handsome in a plain sort of way. Before I could wonder who he was, she pulled him toward me.

“Now I can introduce
you
to someone!” she crowed. “Jessie Beckett, this is Frank Cooper. Believe it or not, Frank grew up across the street from me on Fifth Avenue, but not Fifth Avenue in New York, Fifth Avenue in Helena, Montana. He’s been in Hollywood a year now, and we run into each other now and then.” She danced on her toes with excitement.

“Nice to meet you, Miss Beckett,” he drawled, taking my small hand in his large one. “Myrna says you were a vaudeville star and work for Mr. Fairbanks now.”