Lone star

Modern Screen, Movie World, Hollywood Secrets, TV Radio Mirror, and Photoplay, piled everywhere, all looking pristine, unread. Orderly piles, though, the edges evened, if abandoned. But glancing into the small alcove that served as a kitchen, I saw a tiny table with one plate, one fork, one knife, an old cloth napkin, a bottle of opened wine, red. But there was no glass. I looked into the sink. Nothing. Did the woman drink out of the bottle?

Moving back toward the door, I stepped around the statue I’d seen when I first walked in. Lying perhaps four feet from the body was a chunky, weathered-green, stained object, heavy looking but cheap, maybe a foot high, lying face up. A grotesque woman, with an exaggerated protruding stomach. A fertility goddess? What? Mexican or Aztec or Indian? Something from a tourist stand at a desert reservation in Arizona or New Mexico?

Against a back wall there was a small desk with two drawers pulled out, the only sign of disturbance in her apartment-save, of course, the very obvious body. The contents were strewn onto the desktop-piles of letters, shifted through. A letter from someone in San Francisco. I dared not touch them, tempted as I was. But someone had obviously rifled through the pile, looking for something. Some letter? Someone who knew that Carisa Krausse saved everything. And that person wanted something back. One of the drawers was empty, and I surmised that it had contained the scattered letters. I stood there, a little shaky, and stared from the rotund statue to the scattered letters on the wobbly desk. And then, looking into the other open drawer, I spotted what looked like a syringe, resting on a small cloth bag. Drugs? Medicine? That, the murderer had left. Or left behind?

Then I had heard noise in the hallway, and backed myself toward the entrance. And suddenly the music from the radio, a quick-paced jingle, upbeat and advertising Pepsi-Cola, was buried under the swell of rising voices in the stairwell.

When I arrived at the Burbank studios just before noon, dropped by my driver at the Giant soundstage-I’d violated my long-standing rule of rising promptly at seven, choosing instead to lie, wide awake, in bed until after nine-I expected frenzy, if not hysteria. A foolish assumption, that. Wandering around, strolling toward dressing rooms, I found calm and silence, an eerie pall covering the conversations and movements. I learned shooting had been suspended for that day, over Stevens’ protests. So the vast expanse of Jett Rink’s ballroom looked abandoned, but I noticed production teams still fine-tuning the large banquet hall, preparatory to Jett-Jimmy’s final disastrous moment, the drunken collapse of the mighty wildcatter. In the cavernous room, an electrician cursed loudly, and his voice echoed off the high ceiling.

Unable to locate Tansi who was, I learned, sequestered with Jack Warner and Jake Geyser, I knocked on Mercy’s dressing room door, and was pleased that she was there. She was in a foul mood. “Shooting suspended, but Stevens demands we sit here, in costume. Just sitting. Liz Taylor is sleeping in her dressing room. I heard her yelling at someone. Rock Hudson is God-knows-where. Luckily I have no lines scheduled-I died in Marfa, in more ways than one.” She stood up. “I’m sorry, Edna. Come in. I’ve been itching to yell like a banshee since nine this morning.”

“I thought there’d be a flurry of reporters all over the lot today.”

Mercy pulled out a chair for me. “God, no. Reporters are only allowed on set at the discretion of Stevens-and Warner. But, Edna, word has come down that the murder is not-repeat, not-to be spoken of. Of course, when I arrived, everyone was buzzing. Lots of folks knew Carisa, and I gather there was a short piece in the press this morning. The Warner PR machinery is already in place: a short squib stating the Carisa Krausse, an actress, was found dead in her apartment last night, apparently a homicide. No mention of her connection to Giant. No mention of Warner Bros. Studio. One more ingenue going the way of all flesh, fading into the Hollywood Sunset and Vine.”

“You’re bitter, Mercy.”

“I suppose I am.” Mercy reached for her coffee. “I knew Carisa. You know, I thought her odd, maybe genuinely crazy, and I came to dislike her. No, I came to a point I thought it best not to be with her.”

I nodded. “Surely Cotton will do his job?”

“As much as he can, Edna. You don’t understand the power of men like Jack Warner. The folks at MGM. At 20^th Century. All of them. All branches of government in California are contained in them. No, Detective Cotton will investigate, and will probably solve it, but it’s going to be done with a low profile.”

I rubbed my weary eyes. Last night’s sleeplessness still covered me.

Yes, I understand that movies are big business; the bottom line is cold cash, often ugly cash, piles of green moolah. I play at that game myself, having negotiated with musty publishers like the old-time Doubleday crew, often with tart tongue and steely eye. I like to win. I understand money. But I also understand the ethics that, I hope, underlie my reason for living: the life of the decent, socially conscious middle-class Jew that I emphatically am, especially in the post-Nazi era, in the lame-brain Eisenhower malaise that breeds a Joe McCarthy and his nefarious ilk. “I’ll speak to Warner.”

Mercy chortled. “Edna, Edna.”

“I mean it.”

“Let me be cynical a moment here. When you’re around, they’re kowtowing and salaaming and treating you like the High Priestess of God-Almighty Fiction, but Warner is a hard-nosed skinflint with a propensity to believing that folks are born evil.”

Sighing, resigned, “So what will happen?”

“First off, you may have noticed the chilly temperature of the soundstage. This morning Tansi assembled the troops, and read-with shaky voice, I might add, unhappy to be designated lackey-a terse memo from Jake Geyser. Why he couldn’t do it I don’t know, except that it came off as mean-spirited and petty. Leave that tone to a woman, right? So Tansi reads the note that we should all cooperate with the police, in particular Detective Xavier Cotton from the Central Detective Bureau, who will be roaming the hallways, questioning folks about Carisa. But there was to be no gossiping at the water cooler and no idle chatting to reporters. Carisa’s death was ‘unfortunate’-that’s the word he used-but it has nothing to do with ‘the production of Giant or the inner workings of Warner Bros. Studios.’ Signed, ‘The office of Jack Warner.’ Jake couldn’t even affix his own weaselly name to it, though I saw him hand it to Tansi, coach her when she sputtered, and even push her out in front of the troops. She wasn’t happy.”

“So Cotton is around?”

“He’s somewhere. I talked to him for a bit, then gave one of his men a statement, and they’ll be gunning for you shortly. He’s not happy because he knows his hands are tied here, and he can wander the halls all he wants, with his All Access badge on, but it doesn’t mean a thing because Jack Warner and the Chief of Police-Jack’s golf and charity-function crony, by the way-are his bosses. If he stumbles on a murderer, all well and good, so long as it’s low key. Warner Bros. will distance themselves from it.” Mercy waved her hand in the air. “Shall we go for fresh coffee? This cup is cold.”

“We’re avoiding something.” I stared into her face.

“He didn’t show up,” Mercy answered, quietly. “He was supposed to be here and he’s not. There’s no answer at his place.”

“So what’s the scuttlebutt?” I asked, nervous. I hadn’t stopped thinking about Jimmy since last night-the moment of discovery, my hours awake in bed, and even this morning, having coffee in my room.

“We’re not supposed to talk, but here’s what everyone is whispering about. Cotton learned that Carisa sent letters to Warner and Jimmy, and had copies in hand when he spoke to me. Warner may logjam the investigation, but he’s not a fool. It would get out soon enough. The studio can’t seem to be hiding anything. But Cotton is aware of the slippery ground he’s on. Jimmy’s name is all over this deed, obviously. And so Cotton reads that Carisa has gossip to reveal to Confidential, that she’s carrying his baby, she wants money and marriage and whatever else she spewed in those insane letters.”

“So Jimmy is suspect number one?”

“Our rebel as killer.”

“Not good.” I shook my head slowly.

Mercy smiled. “You do love the understatement.”

“Jimmy ran out of the party early, around six or so.” I paused. “Are the police looking for Jimmy?”

“Cotton has been asking, ‘Is he here yet? Let me know the minute he shows up.’ He’s obviously decided