I doubt if he even saw me in the doorway. I didn’t bother to go in. I changed my mind. Why bother?” She reached for her purse and searched for the compact again. “I’d have to repeat the conversation the next morning anyway.”
“So you went home?”
“Yeah. Cried myself to sleep.”
Chapter Sixteen
I woke with a start: the face of Max’s murderer flashed before me. A suspicion, yes, but I felt it to the core of my being. Only one person, without a doubt. I lay there, trembling, as Ava’s provocative words spun around in my head. Those casual words-how she dwelled on that last evening of Max’s life and the whereabouts of the featured players in this Hollywood dark movie. The Hollywood script we both were living.
Dressed, refreshed with two cups of coffee and orange juice, I phoned Ava, afraid I’d be waking her after a night of insomnia. But she answered on the second ring, her voice hurried. For a second I heard disapproval. “Ah, Edna, good morning.”
“Ava, I’m sorry to call so early. You were expecting another call?”
I heard her lighting a cigarette, the striking of a match. “Francis was supposed to be here. We’re going to Metro today. I have work to do and he has to talk to one of Dore Schary’s minions about his canceled contract.” She seemed out of focus, as though she’d pulled the phone away from her ear. “A desperate attempt. He’s not happy.”
“Is he ever happy?”
She laughed. “Edna, of course. But it’s never when you’re around.”
“Well, thank you.”
She rushed her words. “No, no, that’s not what I mean. Lately, he’s…”
“I know,” I broke in, impatient. “Ava, something you said the other night got me thinking about Max’s murder.”
A nervous titter. “My God. What?”
“I know something, Ava.”
Suddenly I could hear her start to sob in quick, choked gulps. “I don’t know if I want to hear this, Edna.”
I had little patience, so my words were sharp. “Of course, you do.” I breathed in and went on. “Ava, this is between you and me. No one else. Listen to me. Here’s what I think happened.” And methodically, as though checking off a to-do list, I spelled out my reasoning. Ava didn’t say anything, though now and then I could hear her sighing or clearing her throat. When I was finished, I waited, pensive, listening to the eerie silence. “Say something, Ava.”
She hesitated. “You have no proof, Edna.”
“No, I don’t.”
“What can you do?”
“Do you have any ideas?”
Another hesitation. “Check Max’s files. His letters.” She clicked her tongue. “His papers. I always joked that he kept a tell-all diary, but I don’t know. He did jot things down. Maybe…”
“I’ll call Alice.” I was ready to hang up.
“Call me, Edna. I’ll be at Metro all day. I’ll wait for your call.”
“I may want to see you there. Late today.”
“I’ll leave word at security.” The striking of another a match. Another intake of smoke. “Edna, be careful. Murder.” As I started to replace the receiver, I could hear her voice quivering. “Please be careful. This story already has an unhappy ending.”
When I told Alice what I wanted, she immediately invited me to her home. I didn’t mention my suspicions, and strangely she didn’t probe. “I can’t go into that room yet,” she confided. “I will eventually.” Then her voice dropped, melancholic. “It doesn’t seem to have anything to do with the Max that I want to remember.”
Sitting with Alice in her living room, I had no desire for pleasantries, though I nodded and smiled. Instead, my mind was riveted to that workroom behind the closed door. Ava’s words and my wide-awake suspicions. Max’s murderer was out there, cocky perhaps, confident, because the L.A. police had no substantial leads. Yesterday a back-page mention in the
Alice detected my edginess, so our socializing ended abruptly when she stood, pointed to the door of the workroom, and said, “Whatever you want, Edna. Please feel free.” She waved toward the door. “Max’s world.”
“Alice, did Max keep a diary?”
“Just a journal in which he jotted down things.” She smiled. “Ava always joked about Max’s secret diary, a treasure trove of inner sanctum gossip that Hedda Hopper would kill to get her hands on. He always laughed about it.”
“I suppose the police have gone through the room more than once?”
“Yes, three times, in fact, before they unsealed it. I know they leafed through the journal because one of them mentioned it. But what could they find? Business receipts, appointments, innocent stuff.”
“Did they take anything away?”
She shook her head. “A list of his clients. Addresses, phone numbers. Mainly
“Do you know who was interviewed?”
Again, she shook her head. “I mean, I guess they spoke to Frank Sinatra-because of that stupid threat. Ava told me that. I think Sophie Barnes because she worked for him. They talked to the folks at the Paradise. Harry the bartender. Ethan and Tony, I think. I’m not sure. Lorena, I know. Mainly because I was there that night. Checking in on me.” She shuddered and smiled sadly. “I’m still suspect number one, I suppose.”
“Do you believe Frank would kill Max?”
“Of course not. Frank threatens to kill someone any time he’s out drinking. It’s the way he is.” She paused. “Edna, Frank has never said a mean word to me. Not one. Even though Lenny and Tony and Ethan constantly badmouthed me.”
“A knight in shining armor?” Sarcasm in my tone.
She smiled. ”In some way, yes.”
She left me alone in the small, cluttered room that hadn’t been dusted since the murder. I’d walked into the room the last time I was at the bungalow, observing the clippings piled on the desk, the sloppy mess of scripts, the accordion files. Nothing had been moved. Max’s desk and chair and file cabinets still bore the faint patina of fingerprint residue. At first, daunted by the messy piles of papers, sagging cardboard boxes stacked in corners, accordion files bunched in heaps, I had no idea what to do. My cursory look-over last time had told me nothing, but that was idle curiosity. Now, focused, I tried to reason out my calculated moves. Had the police actually spent time sifting through all of this? I doubted that. A week’s work here, hours of drudgery. The death of a Commie might not warrant such fastidious attention by the sheriffs in town.
I sat at Max’s desk and stifled a sob as I touched the desk mat and his favorite fountain pen. Notoriously he’d always gnawed on the tip of the stem, a nervous habit I now found endearing. A desk calendar was filled with notations, deadlines, scribbles. I checked the dates listed. Another tug at my heart as I observed a dark line drawn through all the days of my visit, with nothing else scheduled. One word: “Edna.”
But I got busy. One drawer held nothing but receipts bound by elastic bands. Another held trade magazines, issues of the
