Chapter 22 Par for the Course
Par for the Course
I think we’re done. As mad as she is at Jack for handing over the most private details of her life for a script, his fury over what the studio is capable of—and what he now thinks she’s capable of—has put her on the defensive. And worse, it’s made her question herself.
Every good they’ve done has come with a bad.
Intertwined, the yin and the yang. They help their stars by invading their privacy.
Boost a career or give someone much-needed rest and solitude by spreading lies and rumors.
At times, Frankie’s glimpsed that there’s a nebulous, murky quality to what they do, but so far she’s been able to justify their actions.
Hiring Ida to portray the studio’s agenda as her own, however, is beyond what Frankie can defend.
“Spare yourself and don’t go into work,” Nico tells her Thursday morning when he calls. An angry group is already outside the studio, calling for a boycott of any and all of the studio’s films. “We’ll work from my house today, let security figure out a way to clear them out.”
But at Nico’s house, his car is not there. She knocks on the door, wondering if she somehow heard his instructions wrong.
“He left to meet the big boss,” Angela tells her. “When they beckon, you come. Give him about twenty minutes. And holler if you need coffee. I’ve got some percolating.”
Inside Nico’s office, there’s dust on an oak table by the window, a full wastebasket by the door.
She glances at the desk. Underneath is his safe.
It’s amazing, what you can justify. What you refuse to see.
Is Jack right? Nico’s said he keeps all the correspondence here, and with one move, she can verify that’s the case and prove to Jack that at least everything Nico said in regard to Donna and Jack’s life is true.
Though it’s not much, it would be a start.
The safe is bloodred with gold borders and a painting of a ship toward the top.
Emergency money, files with sensitive information, a few photographs he doesn’t want in the wrong hands; he’s been open with what he keeps here as well as with the combination, which is his wedding anniversary.
June 17, 1920. That’s the day they married, and Frankie remembers this because he had an anniversary party when she first moved to California, and ever since she’s helped him find restaurants to celebrate the occasion.
But when she tries that combination, it doesn’t work.
She tries it again. Then once more, now leaving off the 19. Nothing.
She sits back in his desk chair, confused.
And then she remembers him telling her about the safe combination: You ever need to get in there, just ask Angela for our anniversary, and then let me know what it is, because I’m always a day off.
Could he still have been a day off when he set the combination? She tries June 16, but the safe doesn’t budge. Then she tries June 18, and the door swings open. A small laugh as she wonders whether Nico has any idea what his anniversary actually is.
Everything is organized. A large envelope with cash.
Folders with different stars’ names typed neatly on the front, letters and documents inside.
Quickly, she flips open the one with Jack’s name.
Letters from Donna. Telegrams from Donna.
Check receipts. Heart racing, Frankie reads everything—but it all confirms what she already knows, which is what Nico’s told her.
Nothing is out of place or alarming, and though she’s relieved, she’s not surprised; after all, he gave her the combination.
She’s putting the file back when she sees June’s folder.
Listening for his car or for Angela, she flips through the contents.
There are payment stubs to Ida, going back years.
Then, below, another check stub for a staggering sum, paid out to someone whose name Frankie doesn’t recognize.
Below that, a copy of a police report that lists that same person, and an address on June’s street.
As fast as she can, Frankie scans the document, spotting Ida’s name and the word negligence, but also tragic accident and no indication of alcohol or drug use.
From what it looks like, the neighbor’s two-year-old child drowned in the pool, almost a year before Frankie started working for Nico.
Though he’s told her he tries to keep some of their stars’ secrets hidden, even from her, somehow this feels significant.
Because she is so engrossed in the report, she doesn’t hear the footsteps till they’re at the door.
She freezes, eyes on the door handle. Did she miss the sound of his car in the driveway? The front door opening?
But then, mercy. The steps continue, the sound disappearing down the hall. Frankie checks the driveway—empty. She has to do this fast.
On the other side of the folder is a letter, dated last year, from Tank to June, in which he professes his love and claims he can’t live without her.
How did Nico get it? Keep everything, he’s told her.
You never know when something might come in handy.
She scans the letter, but though it’s in line with Tank’s obsession with June, it’s not alarming.
Then there’s another note, underneath, in June’s scribbled handwriting:
Nico, You always said to end strong, and know when to leave. I might not be ending strong, but I know it’s time to leave.
Right behind that is another letter from Tank, begging June to stay. June needed Nico’s help to get away from Tank, that much is clear.
And then, the sound of a car. Within seconds, she’s got everything put back and is drawing the safe door shut, spinning it locked.
“Sorry about that,” Nico says when he enters the room, tossing a stack of newspapers on his desk. “Jack was right. He’s the story, and it doesn’t get better than that.”
Jack’s face is on the cover of each paper. “They still have Tank?”
“Thankfully, yes. But every paper’s got someone camped outside the station, and all they care about is that Jack’s still there.”
When they spoke yesterday, privately, about Nico’s decision to hire Ida, it was brief. Later, he’d said. “Is now later?”
Nico sighs as if he expected this. “There’s not much to say. June changed with the pregnancy. Hormones, maybe, I don’t know, but she wasn’t thinking straight. Even Ida knew she wasn’t thinking straight.”
“When did you start paying her?”
“Ages ago. Not to influence June, per se, but to be there and keep her safe and clean up her messes and be the angel on her shoulder. Basically, we paid Ida to babysit June.”
“Her own sister.”
“Who better? This was someone with June, who cared about her, who was already doing these things. Why not pay her so it’s worth her time? Makes sense?”
And the worst thing is, it does make sense. “It doesn’t matter what I think; June didn’t think it made sense.”
“Of course she didn’t. You and I, we work in the background so our stars don’t know the half of it.
Then something like this happens, and they get up in arms. Par for the course.
But we’ve got bigger problems.” He picks up the newspaper on top of the stack and tosses it in her direction. “This is Magda. She’s turned on us.”
Frankie scans the article. Magda reports that Darlene Cleary is convinced Jack did it—more conjecture. “Again, it’s hunches and rumors. There’s no new information here. Nothing but Darlene’s gut feeling.”
“The point is Magda’s reporting it. That’s the problem. First Dottie, now Magda. We’re losing them, and let me tell you, the powers that be at the studio are not happy. With us, or with Magda.” He swivels in his chair, facing the window. “You know what? Get her on the phone for me.”
Magda immediately knows she’s in trouble.
Frankie listens in as Nico castigates her, tossing out thinly veiled threats, accusing her of yellow journalism, that sensationalistic writing style that only serves to catch eyes rather than tell the truth.
When he hangs up, he tells her that Magda has come to her senses and even gave him a heads-up on something so he could shut it down.
“Size-twelve shoe prints on the neighbor’s property,” Nico says to Frankie.
“This is the neighbor who never got around to building a house, the one with the empty lot and the stone wall. His wife told this to Magda. Size-twelve shoe prints in an area like someone was hiding out of sight but walking toward June’s house.
The husband wanted to stay out of it, but the wife plays bridge and has a big mouth. ”
“Jack’s size twelve,” Frankie says. “But you know that.”
“I know that, and so does Magda, because Magda did a profile on him and even remembers what size tie he wears. So her penance, to us, is that she won’t repeat that to anyone. Yet. Yet, she said.”
“But the man with the stone wall doesn’t even live there. How would he know about prints?”
“Claims he went over right away and saw them.”
“That could be anyone. Cops, even.”
“I know that, you know that, but that’s not how it’ll show up in the press. Shoe Prints Matching Jack Sawyer’s Found in Neighbor’s Yard. That’s the headline.”
“But if Jack was staying there, like Darlene claimed, then why would he be sneaking around in the neighbor’s yard?”
“Doesn’t matter. Magda’s asking questions, and that should scare us.
” He pauses, running his hand through his hair.
“It’s not always what you’re asking but the fact that you’re asking it in the first place that’s the problem.
In Magda’s mind, there’s a chance Jack did it, or she wouldn’t be pursuing any of this. ”
No one’s trying to solve this. “Nico. The shoe prints could be from the person who did it. Maybe they should look into—”
“Any other size, I agree with you. An eleven, thirteen—but twelve? That opens a can of worms, and why? These prints have nothing to do with anything. If they were left in mud, there would’ve been mud at the scene, right? Do you remember mud? Even on the porch?”
“No.”
“Right. So why stir things up for nothing? What it is, is someone looking for attention and excitement. But listen, you can’t win if you don’t play the game, so here’s what I want you to do: Meet with Magda, tell her you think there were muddy prints at the scene, but the whole morning was a blur.
Tell her to ask Mickey what size they found inside, if there were any.
She won’t be able to resist. And when she asks Mickey, he’s gonna want to do me a favor, and he’s gonna pick up the phone to report back that she’s there, sniffing around.
And I’ll have that on her. It won’t hurt to keep her occupied—and in my debt. ”
Lying to Magda in an attempt to throw her off Jack—Frankie owes that to Jack, but lies compounding lies has hurled them into such hazy territory that she no longer knows how to extricate right from wrong. “You just threatened Magda. She won’t go against you.”
“She will if you tell her I said she was just a tabloid writer. That’ll do it. Trust me.”
So Frankie does. She meets with Magda at a coffee shop in Hollywood. Ivy covers the white wood shingles on the exterior, and though there’s a chill in the air, they sit at a table outside, alone.
“Thing is,” Magda says, “if these prints were Jack’s, if they match his shoes, that means he was there when it rained, when the ground was soft. Which means he wasn’t in Malibu, as reported. Which means he was there while someone killed her.”
Magda stops just short of suggesting that the someone could’ve been Jack. “My dad has size twelve shoes,” Frankie lies. “So do countless men in Los Angeles. But the person who did this—these could be their prints, and I need to know about them.” That last part is, at least, the truth.
“So not Jack.”
“Of course not Jack. Jack wandering around the neighbor’s property makes no sense. June would just let him in. He wouldn’t need to hide or break in. Why would he do that?”
“To throw people off? Or not be seen?”
“So he throws people off with his own shoe prints? Here’s what I’m thinking.
If the shoe prints had anything to do with June, there should’ve been mud inside or on the porch.
” Now she leans in. “I’m only telling you this because I want this person caught.
That morning, I think I was in shock, but I heard one of the cops making a note about mud.
At least I think I did. Which now makes sense, with the shoe prints in the mud next door. ”
Magda glances behind her, then back at Frankie. “You heard that?”
Frankie watches her write down the word porch on her steno pad just as a truck rumbles past, loud, like a clap of thunder. “Don’t quote me on it because I’m not certain, but I’m certain enough to want to look into it. But I can’t. For obvious reasons.”
Magda closes her notepad, lips pursed as if considering Frankie’s words. “Nico told me to leave the investigation to the professionals.”
“Well, he thinks you’re just a tabloid writer.”
Now Magda looks up sharply, and Frankie stands to gather her things, both relieved and unnerved that it went exactly as Nico planned.