Hollywood Boulevard
asked, his expression a study in neutral.
    Â Â Â Â I wanted to ask him if he didn't secretly long to be a movie star. He had the looks. Detective Collins was a solid, tight William Holden à la Sunset Boulevard — I was thinking the scene where Gloria Swanson towels him off at the pool. I also sensed interiority, which I might not have expected in a cop, though that was probably too much Hollywood talking. What did I know about real cops, inside or outside? "I wasn't laughing," I replied, trying on my own version of tonal beige.
    Â Â Â Â "The housekeeper says you and Mr. Machin argued."
    Â Â Â Â "Wasn't she in the kitchen?"
    Â Â Â Â "Did you argue?"
    Â Â Â Â "No."
    Â Â Â Â "She said there was shouting."
    Â Â Â Â "Yes, but not me. Harry got overexcited."
    Â Â Â Â "Over what?"
    Â Â Â Â "Over me no longer acting."
    Â Â Â Â "He was your agent?"
    Â Â Â Â I nodded. We were quiet in the drab little interview room of the not- very- busy upstairs detective quarters, a setup involving mostly too many cluttered desks for the space. The Detective looked to be sizing things up. For a second I was afraid he was going to say something about me as a "personality." But he asked, "Any idea why Mrs. Lundy would say you killed Mr. Machin?"
    Â Â Â Â "She overreacted."
    Â Â Â Â "People seem to overstimulate themselves around you. I suppose that's a good thing in an actor."
    Â Â Â Â "I no longer am an actor."
    Â Â Â Â "Did you know of the heart condition?"
    Â Â Â Â "I knew he'd been sick."
    Â Â Â Â " Tough to prove, even if you did knowingly push him over the edge."
    Â Â Â Â "I'm assuming that's in the realm of fantasy?" If I was playing a part, I was doing a good job because I wasn't at all comfortable sitting in the precinct opposite the handsome detective. That was about when I started getting the bad feeling I haven't been able to shake since.
    Â Â Â Â Detective Collins stood up. "Thanks for coming in, Miss Thrush." I stood up too, and he escorted me to the top of the stairs, handing me his card, "On the off chance you think of something related to Mr. Machin's death." I stuffed the card into my pocket without looking at it. "You were a good actress," he tossed over his shoulder after I said good- bye.
    Â Â Â Â I turned around on the stairs. "Cops go to the movies?" I said.
    Â Â Â Â He turned around too. The smallest suggestion of a smile played across his mouth like a breeze over the surface of a mountain lake. "They're allowed to," he said.
    Â Â Â Â He hadn't officially said I was not a person of interest, and part of me wondered if I hadn't killed Harry, involuntarily. That was not a good thing to be wondering, even if I knew the idea was mostly madness.
    Â Â Â Â The next morning Andre said it was just coincidence it had been me there at lunch. It could have been anyone; it could have been the Lundy woman he'd dropped dead on. I'd wanted to ask why he'd been so happy that day about my having lunch with Harry, but Andre put a stop to any further Harry Machin speculation. He was probably right, but that didn't stop my brain from repeatedly raking over those last few minutes: I should have left when I'd said I should leave, or Harry saying he was going to stay calm and then losing it. All he wanted to know was why I quit acting . . . I'd never even had a chance to answer the million- dollar question. All the seconds that might have turned out differently . . . if only . . . If only I'd had a flat tire, if only I'd said no to lunch, if only I hadn't picked up the house phone, if only I had gone to the set with Jarrad the night before . . . who knows, I might have canceled the lunch and Harry might still be alive . . . If only.
    Â Â Â Â As I was spinning on that mental carousel, the house phone rang, almost like a joke. I stared at it as if it were a

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