CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Riley studied Diane’s face, searching for any sign that the woman was deliberately misleading them.
The theatrical makeup, the elaborate hairstyle frozen in time like her mannequins downstairs—all of it suggested someone disconnected from reality.
Yet beneath the eccentricity, Riley sensed something authentic.
“What do you think Veronica was trying to warn you about?” Ann Marie inquired softly.
“It wasn’t anything concrete,” Diane responded. “Or if it was, I didn’t get the full message. But I’m worried that more people might be in jeopardy.”
Riley realized that Diane genuinely believed she’d received a warning and was eager to keep others out of harm’s way. Even so, that didn’t actually help with the case. They needed more practical information.
“Ms. Kingsley,” she began,” do you know a man named Malcolm Hartley? He works as head of security at Magnolia Gateway Films.”
Diane’s silver brows drew together, creating fine creases in her carefully applied foundation. “Malcolm Hartley?” She rolled the name on her tongue as if tasting an unfamiliar dish. “No, I don’t believe so. Should I?”
“He was obsessed with Veronica—or more specifically, with exposing information about Roberta’s HUAC testimony,” Ann Marie explained. “He had a bulletin board in his office covered with defaced photos of Veronica.”
“How dreadful,” Diane murmured, her hand fluttering to her throat.
“But no, the name means nothing to me. Like I said, I rarely leave this place. My world has grown smaller over the years—by choice, I might add.” Her gaze drifted toward the window again, then back to her visitors. “Why would this man matter?”
Riley noted how quickly Diane had dismissed the topic of Malcolm Hartley. Either she truly didn’t know him, or she was an exceptional actress—which, given her background, remained a possibility.
Ann Marie leaned forward slightly, her expression softening. “Ms. Kingsley, could you tell us more about your friendship with Roberta? You mentioned she was your mentor.”
The question transformed Diane. Her posture straightened, her eyes brightened, and a genuine smile replaced the anxious expression she’d worn moments before.
“Roberta was...” She paused, searching for the right words.
“She was extraordinary. Not just as an actress—though heaven knows she was brilliant on screen—but as a human being. We met on the set of Autumn Shadows in 1971. I was twenty-three, just a wardrobe assistant with delusions of becoming an actress someday.”
Diane rose and moved to a small cabinet in the corner. She opened it to reveal dozens of photo albums, carefully labeled and arranged by year. She selected one and brought it back to her seat.
“Here,” she said, opening the album to reveal photographs of a much younger Diane standing beside Roberta Rimes on what appeared to be a film set. “Roberta took me under her wing. She insisted I read for small parts, coached me through auditions, and introduced me to directors and producers.”
Riley examined the photographs as Diane turned the pages. In each image, the younger Diane looked at Roberta with undisguised adoration.
“I had some success—nothing like Roberta’s, of course, but enough to keep working. Until 1983.” Diane’s voice dropped. “My... breakdown.”
Riley waited, sensing that Diane needed time to continue at her own pace.
“It was a perfect storm,” Diane finally said. “A role I desperately wanted went to someone else. My mother died suddenly. My marriage fell apart. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat. Eventually, I couldn’t even leave my house without panic consuming me.”
She closed the album gently. “The industry isn’t kind to ‘difficult’ actresses, especially ones who aren’t major stars to begin with. My career was over almost overnight.”
“That must have been devastating,” Ann Marie said softly.
Diane nodded. “It would have destroyed me completely if not for Roberta. She found me the doctors I needed. Paid for my treatment when the insurance ran out. And when I was ready to leave Los Angeles—when I couldn’t bear to be in that town another day—she helped me set up this shop here in Atlanta, close enough that she could visit regularly after she retired. ”
The story painted a picture of Roberta Rimes that contrasted sharply with the woman who had testified against colleagues to save herself. Riley wondered which version was more authentic—the loyal friend Diane described, or the frightened actress who had named names during the McCarthy era.
“Ms. Kingsley,” Riley said, “we need to understand more about Roberta’s testimony before HUAC. What exactly did she tell you about it?”
The change in topic dimmed the light in Diane’s eyes. She set the photo album aside and folded her hands in her lap, suddenly looking every one of her years.
“Roberta didn’t speak of it often,” she began. “The first time was after too much wine, during a weekend visit in the early eighties. She said it was the great shame of her life—something she could never atone for, no matter how much good she tried to do afterward.”
Diane rose again, moving to a small bar cart in the corner. Without commenting or offering the two agents anything, she poured herself a finger of amber liquid—whiskey, Riley guessed—and took a sip before continuing.
“Roberta was very young when it happened. About 25, I think. It was 1955, and The Night Walker had just made her famous.” Diane’s voice took on a storyteller’s cadence, as if she’d mentally rehearsed this narrative.
“Like many young, idealistic people in Hollywood at that time, she attended a few meetings of the American Peace Mobilization. She wasn’t political, really—she went because a friend invited her, because it seemed like the right thing to do. ”
“The American Peace Mobilization was considered a Communist front organization,” Riley noted.
Diane nodded. “Yes, though Roberta didn’t realize the full implications at the time. It was a youthful mistake—naive, perhaps, but hardly sinister. But HUAC was looking for any connection, any association they could use.”
She took another sip of her drink. “When Roberta received a subpoena to testify, she was terrified. This was at the height of the blacklist—careers, lives were being destroyed daily.”
“So she testified,” Ann Marie prompted gently.
“Behind closed doors,” Diane confirmed. “A clandestine session, not public like the hearings we’ve all seen footage of. The committee offered her a deal—name others who had attended those meetings, and her own participation would be kept confidential.”
Riley felt a chill despite the apartment’s warmth. “And she accepted.”
“She was young, ambitious, and terrified,” Diane said, not quite an answer but clearly a kind of defense. “The studio had made it clear: cooperate or be blacklisted.”
“So she named names,” Riley said, keeping her tone neutral.
Diane turned to stare out the window at the deepening dusk. “Yes. She gave them what they wanted—names of others who had attended those meetings. I think maybe some were already known to the committee, while others weren’t.”
“Did she ever tell you who specifically she named?” Riley asked.
Diane shook her head firmly. “No. She wouldn’t speak of it in such specific terms—not even to me.
She would only say that her testimony had ‘destroyed lives’ and that she ‘lived with the consequences every day.’ I think she feared that if I knew the names, I might someday let something slip, and her secret would be exposed. ”
She returned to her seat, glass still in hand.
“Roberta once told me she’d rather be a nobody today than have done what she did.
That all her success felt tainted because of how she’d protected herself at others’ expense.
But she was too afraid to come forward publicly and confess, even decades later. ”
“And you believe Veronica was killed because of her mother’s testimony?” Ann Marie asked.
“I’m certain of it,” Diane replied without hesitation. “Why else make use of that recreated scene from The Night Walker? It’s symbolic—punishing the daughter for the mother’s sins. But more than that...” Her voice dropped to nearly a whisper. “It won’t end with Veronica.”
Riley leaned forward. “What makes you say that?”
“Because vengeance like this doesn’t simply stop once blood has been spilled.
It grows, consumes.” Diane’s eyes seemed to focus on something beyond the room’s confines.
“When Veronica came to me last night, I sensed her fear—not for herself, but for others. That’s what she was trying to warn me about. ”
The claim about Veronica’s “visit” still struck Riley as the delusion of a troubled mind, but the idea behind the “warning” itself held a certain logic.
If the murder was indeed connected to Roberta’s testimony, there could be other targets—perhaps others who had benefited from keeping that testimony secret.
“Is there anything else you can tell us?” Riley asked. “Anything Roberta might have mentioned about the people involved, even if she didn’t name them specifically?”
Diane considered the question, swirling the remaining liquid in her glass. “I wish I could tell you more, but that’s all I know. Roberta kept that part of her life carefully compartmentalized—even from those closest to her.”
She set her empty glass down with a sense of finality. “I’ve lived with Roberta’s secret for decades without mentioning it to another soul. I’m breaking that confidence now only because Veronica is gone, and because I believe others might be in danger.”
“We appreciate your candor,” Riley said, rising from the settee.
Ann Marie followed suit. “You’ve been very helpful, Ms. Kingsley.”
“Will you find whoever did this?” Diane asked, suddenly vulnerable in a way that made her seem smaller, frailer than before.
“We’ll do everything we can,” Ann Marie assured her with genuine warmth.
Diane walked them to the door, her steps careful. “Be vigilant,” she said as they prepared to leave. “Whoever killed Veronica has waited a very long time for their revenge. They won’t stop now that they’ve begun.”
Riley nodded, acknowledging the warning without endorsing Diane’s supernatural explanation for it. “Thank you again, Ms. Kingsley. We’ll be in touch if we have any more questions.”
The descent down the narrow staircase felt like a transition between worlds—from Diane’s carefully preserved shrine to old Hollywood, back to the present reality of a murder investigation.
The shop below sat in darkness, the glamorous mannequins looking even more alive in the dim light, their frozen poses more eerie.
Outside, twilight had settled over Atlanta, painting the sky in deepening shades of blue. Streetlights flickered on as Riley and Ann Marie made their way back to their car.
“What do you think?” Ann Marie asked once they were out of earshot of the shop.
Riley exhaled slowly, organizing her thoughts. “I think Diane Kingsley is deeply unstable—living in a fantasy world where dead friends pay social calls. But there’s no doubt that she’s telling the truth about Roberta’s testimony and its significance. At least, as much as she knows about it.”
“That’s right,” Ann Marie agreed as they reached the car. “If someone connected to one of the people Roberta named has nursed a grudge all these years, they could be well into their eighties or nineties now—or it could be a child or grandchild carrying out revenge for a family member.”
Riley unlocked the car but paused before opening the door, Diane’s warning settling over her like the gathering darkness.
“Either way, I think she’s right about one thing—this isn’t over.
The theatrical nature of Veronica’s murder, the symbolism of using the same poison from her mother’s famous film role.
.. that’s not the work of someone who plans to stop after a single killing. ”
“So who might be next?” Ann Marie asked, her expression grave in the soft glow of the streetlight above them.
“I don’t know,” Riley admitted. “But if the motivation is vengeance for Roberta’s testimony, it could be anyone connected to keeping that secret—friends, studio executives, maybe even others who testified and were protected while their colleagues were exposed.”
They slid into the car, the interior still warm from the day’s heat. Riley started the engine but didn’t immediately pull away from the curb, her mind working through the implications of what they’d learned.
Before she and Ann Marie could decide on a course of action, Riley’s phone rang, its screen illuminating the darkened car interior. Both women glanced down at the display, where Detective Hayes’ name flashed urgently against the background.
What had could Hayes have discovered that he couldn’t wait until morning to share it?