Hollywood Buzz (19 page)

Sam’s lips brushed that most sensitive nook of my neck. I stiffened, unsure of what was coming next. I would never have guessed.

“You don’t have to snoop,” he whispered in my ear. “I’ll tell you everything.”

Whether the goose bumps that rose along my arms and shoulders were from the warmth of his breath or from the bluntness of his words, I would never know.

Sam’s body tensed and he froze, his grip tightening on my back, digging in so tight it hurt.

“What?” I looked up. My back was to the fireplace. Sam was gaping at something—or someone—over my shoulder. Flames from the hearth danced in the lenses of his steel frames, but the terror behind them in his eyes was unmistakable.

“What is it?” I repeated, squirming to break free of his grasp.

Abruptly, Sam snapped away from me as if a bucket of ice water had been tossed on us. I whirled. A flash of movement outside the window, then darkness. I spun back to face Sam.

“Was someone out there, Sam? Speak to me!”

His expression was dazed. He stood pop-eyed, tongue-tied.

A frenzied rendition of
It Don’t Mean a Thing
blared in the background. I caught
if it
ain’t got that swing
and wanted to swing my fist, knock a reply from Sam’s mouth. It’d been a horrendous day, a horrendous couple of days. Now this.

Well, I wouldn’t use my fist, but I had to snap him out of it, get some answers.

“I know Frankie took you on a joy ride,” I said, going for broke. “She’s paying a terrible price. Her career is on the line, maybe even her life. Who sabotaged her plane? The person at the window?
You?
”

Sam looked stunned, then devastated. “Me? No!” He looked away.

“Sam?”

He faced me again. A tear rained from under the steel rims. “I love Frankie. I’m so sorry…”

He wiped the tear and his demeanor changed again. His hand clutched his mouth as though he were about to throw up or scream. He began pacing in front of the fireplace.

“Sam, what is it?” I pleaded.

He continued to pace in silence.

I shouted, “Sam Lorenz, stop that this minute.”

He stopped…and moved toward me like a zombie. “Get away from me. Get away.”

Before I could react, he grabbed my forearm. Gripping it with superhuman strength I would never have guessed he had in him, he dragged me around the sofa toward the front door. I pretended to trip. Still he pulled me along. With his free hand, he turned the doorknob and heaved the wooden door inward. I struggled to break free, but he held me close and hard.

Outside, he hurled me off the stoop onto the sidewalk as though I was nothing more than a rag doll.

My foot twisted off the sidewalk’s edge, thrusting me into mortal combat with the rose hedge. The encounter nearly cost several marauding bushes their lives. My arms flailed at canes, leaves, and thorns, battering them with a wrath they would never forget. Men! First Gunnar, now Sam.

A cold rage filled me. Without so much as a backward glance, I stomped down the walkway, rummaging my pockets for the keys. Tears blurred the journey into watery light and shadow. I slammed the car door. The lingering smell of Chinese food melded with the sweet perfume of crushed rose petals that clung to my hair and clothing. The combination had a sudden sickening impact. My stomach heaved. I got the door open in the nick of time. Dinner with Sam Lorenz spewed out with a vengeance, hitting the pavement with a grotesque splat.

I drove home knotted with confusion and anger. I hated Sam for whatever was ailing him, and I hated myself more. Why did I have to be so nosey? Go prying into his things? Because I thought I was clever enough to single-handedly solve the mystery of the sabotage attempt, that’s why. Ha.

Why had I compromised myself? All evening—maybe since I met him—I’d been making excuses for Sam’s behavior toward me. Set aside my personal instincts, held back my opinions. Why?

To prove that with enough stubborn determination I could get my way? That I could use Sam’s know-how to create the film Miss C wanted? Because I wanted to have a little fling? Because his looks were out of the ordinary? Because his view of women seemed more objective than most men’s?

Well, he was different from other men all right. He was
different
, period!

I brooded the entire way back to the Dunns’, vowing to listen to the little voice next time.

***

In my room back at the Dunns’, things brightened. My jade-green satin pajamas awaited me, neatly folded, atop my pillow. A sprig of white jasmine rested across them.

Chapter Thirteen

The sight of roses on the ledge of Gus’ newsstand made my stomach lurch.

Huge blossoms in a gorgeous shade of peach—on another day they would have sent me. This morning, they brought to mind my disastrous evening with Sam Lorenz.

Clasping my arms across my midriff, I continued toward the kiosk. Recalling Sam’s dating behavior, a Dr. Jekyll-Mr. Hyde transformation straight out of a Lugosi horror movie, I shuddered, then rubbed my arms, trying to shake off the memory. The friction irritated a scratch near my elbow. While it might be possible to bury a bruised psyche, the reminders on my skin would be harder to hide. I looked down and regarded my badly scraped hands, poorly camouflaged with make-up. Last night, the rosebushes had given me a pretty good thrashing. This morning, I’d had to borrow liquid foundation from Della’s vanity to cover up my wounds.

Another scar, a permanent one, courtesy of my arch enemy from Detroit, Cardillac, throbbed on my forearm. Cardillac had also surprised me with her transformation. Not a Dr. Jekyll-Mr. Hyde thing exactly. She’d always been evil, I just hadn’t seen it.
Too often you are blind to the faults of those you love.
Ilka’s clairvoyant insight penetrated my thoughts once again. No, not Cardillac. What wasn’t I seeing about Sam? And what–
who
–had he seen at the window? I’d seen nothing myself. Perhaps he’d come forward and explain. Not that I was anxious to see him again.

Time, and steering clear of Sam, I reassured myself, would help heal both the mental and physical scars. Meantime, I had a busy day ahead. I planned to throw myself into work.

A crammed agenda didn’t mean I had to forego my morning dose of gossip, did it? My keyed-up state last night had carried over into the early morning and I’d bounced out of bed, wired for another early start. I had a leg up on the day, anyway.

Gus got underway early too. As I approached the newsstand, I saw him huddled once again with the brazen MP who repulsed me—the one with the wandering beady eyes. The two were off to one side of the kiosk, several yards from where I stopped. Gus saw me and waved. Happily, the MP’s back was to me. I wouldn’t be at the mercy of his suggestive glances.

Today, to the cerise vest and tweed cap he’d had on the last few mornings, Gus had added violet pants and an orange shirt. I smiled. Where did he come up with such crazy combinations? A charity bin? It was possible. Newspaper vendoring didn’t pay much. And an immigrant couldn’t have brought many possessions with him, right? From his accent, I assumed he was from somewhere in Europe. Which country? What had brought him here?

Grabbing a
Times
from the shelf below the magazine racks, I scanned the front page, my thoughts segueing to our boys serving overseas in foreign lands.

TOTAL OF U.S. WAR DEAD NOW
25,389.

The headline was sobering. I shook my head sadly, attempting to assimilate the huge loss of lives. Beneath the headline, the article continued its grim accounting. Wounded: 35,805—Missing, many perhaps dead: 32,953—Prisoners of war: 26,820. Total casualties: 120,967.

The figures made me think of Frankie, hovering between life and death in the nearby hospital. They also reminded me of why I was ferrying planes, and why I was here in Hollywood. Above and beyond helping to preserve Frankie’s dignity and very being, my duty was to uphold the honor of those of us on the home front doing what we could to help bring an end to the war.

I slapped the paper back together at the fold. The personal woes I’d been harboring were swept aside as Sam Lorenz was relegated to an appropriate category: history!

Returning the
Times
to its stack, I cast another sidelong glance at Gus and the MP, still absorbed in conversation. Fresh issues of
Variety
and
Hollywood Reporter
rested beside the
Times
. Curious about the crowds I’d observed along Sunset the previous night, I examined a copy of one, then the other, scanning the bold headings.

Both tabloids had the scoop I was after, and I gave the
Reporter’s
version a hurried skim.

The War Department wanted more entertainers to go overseas to entertain the troops. To help the cause, Bob Hope, Jack Benny, Judith Anderson, and Frances Langford had jointly signed and wired invitations to the most famous names in pictures, asking them to come out and hear those who’d already been “over there” tell about their experiences and explain why others should go. Four hundred and fifty stars and studio executives had shown up for the event at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. Captain Clark Gable had been on hand lending support.

Gus’ voice broke my concentration. “How is Frankie? Any improvement?”

I shook my head and returned to the present. The MP, I noticed, was ambling away down the sidewalk. “No change. But I’m planning on visiting her again later today. Going to try an experiment that might reach her, maybe draw her out of her coma.” I held crossed fingers in the air, smiling.

Some good had come out of my dinner date with Sam. In bed afterwards, I’d replayed the night’s events over and over. While I lay awake, I remembered Sam asking about what Frankie had said the other day in the hospital. The garbled sounds she’d made came to me in a rush, just before dawn. The sudden epiphany felt significant and filled me with hope. I planned to repeat the sounds to her after work.

“Have they discovered what made the plane to crash?” Gus asked.

The Hollywood Reporter
, still in my hand, fluttered. Gus ran a pretty good grapevine. Could he know it was sabotage?

“Nothing official yet,” I hedged. “Early bets were on mechanical failure. Why?”

The wiry brow above his steadfast blue eye shot up. His brown eye shifted nervously. “Some have claimed the pilot was at fault…”

My jaw dropped. I wanted to jump to Frankie’s defense, but Gus held up a hand to stop me. “No, no. Not to worry. That is not my opinion. And only one or two have said it.”

That’s one or two too many, I thought. The very reason Novara mustn’t be allowed to use the accident clip. Why project the incident on screen over and over? Better to let it—and all the inherent speculation that goes with a plane crash, especially one where the pilot was a woman—fade to black, soon as possible.

Gus continued, “Of course, there is the possibility that someone vandalized the plane—” He paused and adjusted the display of
Silver Screen
on the rack between us.

I held my breath. My pulse raced. Did he know
who
?

“Ah, but no one believes such subversive activity is likely,” he rambled. “Security at March Field, it is tight as a drum. Not like at MGM.”

My shoulders sagged. I released my breath slowly. So he didn’t know anything about the saboteur or the fuel tampering. “What’s security at MGM got to do with anything?”

He bowed over the tidy stack of
Hollywood Reporters
and began fussing with it. “Look what happened to the director Brody at MGM. And just before his demise, the unexplained fire…”

I stared at Gus’ stooped back. The fire had broken out on a high security sound stage. According to Gunnar, it had been deliberately set, likely by the operatives we were trying to chase down. Gus must have gotten the report from his personal all-seeing “source.” But how brash. Or foolhardy. The source was either ignorant of the law, or so confident he would not be fingered for passing along classified information that he’d ignored the possibility of facing a firing squad.

“I didn’t know there was a fire. Where’d you hear that?”

Gus looked back over his shoulder and narrowed his good eye as if to say, you think I’m going to tell you that?

I quickly shifted. “Hear anything new on Brody’s case? His murder investigation?”

Gus straightened up. “No, nothing. Must be the police they didn’t have enough on Chalmers to book him. If they had thrown him in the clink, it would be all over the front pages that is sure.”

“Heard anything about what’s going on that’s
not
in the papers?”

Gus shrugged. “My source has no further information.” He was staring at me. “My dear young lady. What happened with your face?”

My hand flew to my cheek. “Ah, I was playing with a kitten. They get rambunctious so easily.” I faked a smile.

Gus reached for the coffee can full of roses. “How about a rose?”

“N
O
.” The response exploded from my mouth. Gus looked crushed, but I wasn’t about to touch another rose, even to please him. “Sorry.” I mustered a weak smile. “Big day ahead. Gotta run.” To make up for the brusque rejection, I doubled my usual tip.

With a smile, Gus pocketed the money and wished me a good day.

***

Talking with Gus about my plan for repeating Frankie’s utterances gave me a fresh wave of hope. I felt a sudden inexplicable compulsion to try it, checked my watch, and decided there was enough time.

***

A tall, graying, distinguished-looking doctor carrying a clipboard tucked in one hand exited Frankie’s room and walked briskly down the corridor in the opposite direction.

“Dr. Farr?” I called. The doctor, his white coat flapping in the gust created by his fast pace and long stride, kept going. He must not have heard me. Or, it hadn’t been Dr. Farr. We’d only talked on the telephone. I didn’t actually know what he looked like.

The curtain was drawn around Frankie’s bed. On the other side, a sniffling noise.

I parted the seam and pushed through the opening. “Frankie?”

The nurse familiar from my other visits stood at the head of the bed with her back to me looking down at Frankie. She lifted a handkerchief to her face, dabbed a few times, and turned to face me.

“Miss Lew-is…” Her voice was nasal, her eyes watery. “I’m so so-sorry. She’s g-gone. Dr. Fa-ar…” She paused and cleared her throat. “Dr. Farr was just here. I’m sorry…”

The nurse stepped aside and revealed Frankie’s face. My first reaction was that the nurse had made a mistake. Or that she was playing a bad joke. Frankie looked the same. The expression locked in its grim mask, the lips crusty, eyelids puffy…but then the unmistakable difference. Her skin was tinged pasty blue; her lips, a purplish hue.

“Oh no-ooo, Frankie…” The words, her name, emerged in a keening wail. A pounding in my head made it difficult to hear. The nurse sounded like she was in another room, far away.

“Dr. Farr will be back soon. He went to call the authorities.”

I nodded absently. My feet had turned to lead, but I reached Frankie’s side. Tentatively, I reached for the dark matted hair, gently smoothing it. My fingers brushed her forehead. Cold to the touch. My hand trembled.

The nurse snuffled. Tucking herself quietly in next to me, she wrapped an arm around my waist. “I’m so sorry.”

My eyes pooled and Frankie’s features blurred. “I’m the one who’s sorry,” I whimpered. “She was a WASP, my sister in flying, my friend. I was the only family she had here. I s-s-should have been here…”

Miraculously, the nurse pulled a clean handkerchief from her sleeve. I blotted my face.

The nurse shook her head sympathetically. She sensed that I needed to get it out. And get it out I did. The dam burst. Head bowed, my face buried in the handkerchief, I cried in jerky sobs repeating “Why? Why? Why?” until my stomach ached, my throat felt raw, and my eyes burned. All the while, the nurse, gently rubbing my back, matched my distress with calm, quiet talk about having faith in nature and destiny and order.

“Frankie’s life had its own meaning, her death has meaning as well,” she assured me. “Maybe it’s not clear now, but one day her reason for being on this earth will be obvious to you. And there was a reason your life was intertwined with hers. Already that’s clear. In your visits with Frankie, you gave her something of yourself. You shared your presence, your friendship. You gave her comfort and your thoughts. Those are wonderful gifts.”

The nurse’s words soothed me. The tears helped. Like an overflow valve, they drained out enough sorrow so that my grief for Frankie became a manageable lump I thought I could hold inside.

I stared at the handkerchief in my hands, a pathetic damp wad. “Sorry,” I whispered hoarsely, absently twisting it.

“For what? There’s nothing you need be sorry over.”

“I’ve ruined it. It’s stained…” I looked at the nurse through eyes so swollen I could hardly see.

“Not like your grief is staining your heart.” She rubbed the small of my back gently.

I squeezed the nurse’s hand. “You’re wonderful. Thank you.” I looked at Frankie. “And, you’ve given me an idea. A special way we can honor Frankie’s life.” The nurse’s earlier words came back to me all at once. “What happened? How did she die? You said Dr. Farr was making a call to the authorities…”

The nurse glanced over her shoulder. “The doctor should be back soon. Or, maybe he’s waiting for them…”

We were on the side of the bed near Frankie’s broken arm. The nurse turned and nodded to the intravenous bottle on the other side of the bed.

The nurse nodded. “Over there.” I started to circle the end of the bed. “Careful,” she warned. “Don’t disturb anything.”

A vial had shattered near the foot of the I.V. stand, scattering shards of glass in a wild pattern on the floor around it. Moving in close, I knelt down and visually examined what remained of the container. The bold black letters KCl were evident on the green label.

“Potassium,” the nurse whispered. She read my perplexed expression. “A high dose injected into the I.V. would cause instant death.” Her eyes welled up. “We’ve witnessed so much of the suffering with this war. Boys crippled, maimed…” Her voice catching, she paused, swallowed. “So many young lives cut short. A-nnd the poor families.” Atop her dark hair, the stiff white cap pitched with the slow rocking motion of her head. “Now this monstrous act. Here, just down the hall from the nurse station. Horrible!”

I was stunned. “Someone deliberately did this? Murder? When? When did it happen? Did anyone see anything? Hear anything? You were right down the hall, someone must have…”

The nurse bristled. “No one on the nursing crew heard or saw anything. Following doctor’s orders, I looked in our Frankie every two hours throughout the night. At five-thirty when I checked, she was fine. Two hours later, when I came again, she had expired. I called Dr. Farr immediately. He arrived, spotted the broken vial—” The nurse sighed. “She was such a sweet young thing,” she whispered.