Hollywood Boulevard by Janyce Stefan-Cole Page B
Authors: Janyce Stefan-Cole
Tags: Fiction, Suspense, Psychological, Psychological fiction, Suspense fiction, California, Contemporary Women, Actresses, Los Angeles, Hollywood (Los Angeles; Calif.), Hotels, Hotels - Califoirnia - Los Angeles
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asked, his expression a study in neutral.
    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 â 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.
    "The housekeeper says you and Mr. Machin argued."
    "Wasn't she in the kitchen?"
    "Did you argue?"
    "No."
    "She said there was shouting."
    "Yes, but not me. Harry got overexcited."
    "Over what?"
    "Over me no longer acting."
    "He was your agent?"
    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?"
    "She overreacted."
    "People seem to overstimulate themselves around you. I suppose that's a good thing in an actor."
    "I no longer am an actor."
    "Did you know of the heart condition?"
    "I knew he'd been sick."
    " Tough to prove, even if you did knowingly push him over the edge."
    "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.
    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.
    I turned around on the stairs. "Cops go to the movies?" I said.
    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.
    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.
    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.
    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
    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 â 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.
    "The housekeeper says you and Mr. Machin argued."
    "Wasn't she in the kitchen?"
    "Did you argue?"
    "No."
    "She said there was shouting."
    "Yes, but not me. Harry got overexcited."
    "Over what?"
    "Over me no longer acting."
    "He was your agent?"
    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?"
    "She overreacted."
    "People seem to overstimulate themselves around you. I suppose that's a good thing in an actor."
    "I no longer am an actor."
    "Did you know of the heart condition?"
    "I knew he'd been sick."
    " Tough to prove, even if you did knowingly push him over the edge."
    "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.
    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.
    I turned around on the stairs. "Cops go to the movies?" I said.
    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.
    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.
    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.
    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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