Chapter 26
Chapter 26
The next morning Shirley handed Lena the newspaper when she walked in. Not only was she mentioned on the front page in an article about Walter’s death, but Hedda Hopper’s column featured her prominently as well. The first item. ??Lux Pictures Costume Star a Murderess? Police Question Lena Taylor in Actor’s Suspicious Death.??
“Higgy wants to see you,” Shirley informed her.
Lena nodded distractedly. “All right.”
“You have several messages too,” Shirley said. “The Times , the Examiner , and a few other reporters—”
“I’m not doing any interviews. Put them all off. Everyone else too. I don’t have time for this.”
“You have to say something, Lena.” Connie stepped from her office. “Otherwise they’ll print whatever they want.”
Lena let out her breath in frustration and tucked the newspaper beneath her arm. She marched from the costume department back out into the morning sun and crossed to the administration building. When she got to Higgy’s office, Adele simply motioned her into the studio head’s office.
Lena paused. “How is he?”
“How do you think? Today his costumer is mentioned in the paper more times than Twenty Steps to Heaven .”
Higgy’s most recent picture, Twenty Steps to Heaven , had opened only yesterday. So ... he was furious. Lena steeled herself and knocked quickly on the door before she opened it. “Higgy?”
“What the hell is this about?” he thundered from the dais of his desk.
Lena closed the door quickly behind her. Higgy was intimidating on his best day, but when he was angry, his office had a distinctly locked-in-a-cave-with-a-spear-hunter feel. Even the lamps hanging from their thin metal poles seemed to shudder.
“Obviously I didn’t know she was going to print that, Higgy. I don’t even know how she knew. The police must have sent her the tip.”
He rose. When he stood, it looked almost as if his head brushed the ceiling, though Lena knew it was an optical illusion created by his interior designer. Still, it was effective. He looked like he filled the room. “I don’t give one rat’s ass who sent her the tip. I want to know why I didn’t know first that my head of costume was being questioned by police in a murder case. Why didn’t you come to me before you talked to them?”
He made it sound as if she’d committed some cardinal sin.
“I—I’m sorry. I didn’t have the chance. They came to my office.”
“It never occurred to you to come to me after? Or that I might be able to make all this go away before it got to the papers?”
She bowed her head. “No. No, I’m sorry.”
“I have men in the LAPD I pay to alert me to things like this!”
“I’m sorry, Higgy.”
Higgy jabbed his finger at her. “You had better hope to God that I can take care of it now. In the meantime, you will meet with Hedda Hopper and give her a statement saying you had nothing to do with this.”
“I didn’t have anything to do with this.”
“Then it will be easy, won’t it? You’ll do it today, Miss Taylor, do we understand one another?”
Miss Taylor. She didn’t remember the last time he’d called her that. “Yes, of course. I’ll call her right away.”
“Good. Then get the fuck out of my office.”
She was out the door almost before he’d finished speaking. She didn’t dare to pause and crossed the office lobby with little more than a wave at Adele, who no doubt heard the entire exchange.
Lena still had the newspaper tucked beneath her arm when she got to her office. She unfolded it and looked again at the headline. Shirley looked up warily.
“See if you can set up lunch with Hedda Hopper, will you please?” Lena asked. “Someplace nice. Musso and Frank’s if you can, or the Brown Derby? I’ll give her the whole story, and she won’t have to guess. That ought to get her there.”
Shirley made a little scowl, but she nodded.
“And tell Connie she’ll have to cover the fittings during that time, since I’ll be charming the tiger.”
“Better take some fresh meat,” Shirley noted.
First, though, there was Paul. She had to tell him about the police, and what it had involved. Whether she’d tell him about her apartment she hadn’t decided. Probably not. She was confused and afraid, and her instincts told her to keep it quiet for now. Walter was complication enough.
Anxiety and apprehension hurried her steps to soundstage six. She couldn’t delay another moment, even if it meant she had to tell him surrounded by other people. In a way, that might be easier. She had no idea how he would react, nor did she know exactly what she would say.
The soundstage churned with activity. The jazz club set was still being assembled, and the sounds of hammering and drilling filled the air, along with talk and shouting as the lighting guys experimented with various setups and conferred with the cinematographer. The prop and art direction people bent over a long table covered with different types of table lamps and bottles. Lena paused inside, afraid to approach the writing table.
There he was, with Michael Runyon and George Gardner. Paul spoke intently, gesturing. Before him were several pages spread over the table, the typewriter, a half-crumpled pack of Marlboros. Runyon nodded, then motioned with his cigarette. The table was wreathed in smoke.
She shouldn’t interrupt, Lena thought. But that was just cowardice, wasn’t it? Warily, she walked to the table. The moment they saw her, the talk died, all three of them stared at her with various expressions of impatient Yes? She had eyes only for Paul, who looked tired, stubble rough on his face—he hadn’t shaved—and his eyes hooded. There were no smiles for her, only tension.
Lena tried a smile of her own. “I’m sorry for interrupting. I was wondering if I could steal your writer for a minute?”
“It’s a bad time, Lena.” There was no doubt of Paul’s strain now. It was more than that too. She read anger in it.
“I really need to talk to you.”
“We’re in the middle of something.”
“That was quite the headline in Hedda’s column,” Runyon said.
Lena turned furiously to him.
“Shut up, Runyon,” Paul barked.
“Why don’t you go talk to her?” Runyon suggested. “Maybe it’ll put you in a better mood.”
George nodded in agreement. “Go on. I’m going to get more coffee.”
Paul looked like he wanted to refuse. But then he grabbed his cigarette and rose, motioning for her to follow him outside, away from the bustle.
“I should have called you last night,” Lena said. “I’m sorry. I was a bit shaken.”
“So was I. Especially after the detectives paid me a visit.” Paul stared into the distance and drew on his cigarette.
She stared at him in surprise. “They talked to you? Why?”
“They wanted to ask me if I knew any reason my fiancée might want to murder Walter Maynard.”
“What did you say?”
Now he looked at her. His dark eyes burned. “What could I say other than I had no idea because I had no idea who the hell Walter Maynard was?”
“Paul, I had nothing to do with his death, I promise.”
He laughed shortly and shook his head. “Who is he?”
She hadn’t known exactly what she would tell him, but her worries about what the police might find if they traced back far enough in Walter’s life, the truth of Elsie Gruner and Rome, kept her from revealing the truth. She was no longer married—that was the most important thing. Paul had agreed to work with Runyon on this script and she couldn’t allow her past to threaten that fragile compromise. For now it seemed safer—better—to keep to the story she’d told the detectives. “An old friend. I knew him years ago, when I first came to LA.”
Paul eyed her. “What kind of an old friend?”
“One I hadn’t seen for six years. He was an actor.”
“I see.”
“I don’t think you do. He saw my picture in Louella’s column and wanted money. I gave him some.”
“Why would you do that?”
She shrugged. “He was down on his luck. He’d helped me out a long time ago—”
“Really? How so?”
She probably shouldn’t have said that. “He ... gave me rides to work. That kind of thing. He needed a favor, and it was the best way to make him go away. I didn’t want him hanging around.”
Paul frowned. “You realize how that sounds?”
Lena sighed. “I didn’t want him dead—why would I? I’m telling you, I hadn’t seen him for years! When I left him last night, he was still alive. I have no idea what happened to him after that.”
Paul considered her. He took the last drag on his cigarette and threw it down, grinding it out on the dirt, which clouded up and dulled the shine of his shoe. “They asked me if I had a reason to kill him. They asked me where I was. If I had an alibi.”
“Oh, Paul. I’m so sorry.”
“Fortunately I’d gone to one of those Mexican places on Olvera with Runyon.”
“Good.” Lena didn’t try to hide her relief. “Though I’m surprised you’d want to spend any more time with him than you have to.”
Paul didn’t comment on that. Instead he said, “Is there some reason the police would think I might want to kill this Maynard, Lena?”
“What a question!”
He regarded her soberly. “You know what I’m asking you.”
Lena touched his forearm, hesitating, wondering if he’d freeze or pull away and then realizing she’d never had to wonder that before. He didn’t; she wrapped her fingers around his arm. “No. I promise you there’s not. I don’t know what Walter was involved in, but I had nothing to do with it. I met with him and I gave him money, and I was annoyed with him because he’d popped up out of nowhere and I felt obligated because he was down on his luck, but that’s all .”
“Okay.” Paul nodded. “Okay.”
She met his gaze. “You should know that Higgy’s furious. He’s making me have lunch with Hedda to explain, and ... so this isn’t going away yet.”
Another nod. “I’ve got to get back. Let’s have dinner tonight.”
“I’d love to.” She kissed him, and then she finally got the smile she’d been waiting for before he turned to go inside. She wanted to bury herself in that smile, though she was afraid of it, too; she was afraid that it absolved her and she did not deserve absolution, because she’d lied to him again—but she was doing it to protect him. Walter was dead; he couldn’t come back to tell the truth, and she hadn’t murdered him, so none of it could matter.
She found the thought strangely upsetting.