in the foyer. Do sit down! It’s been a rough day, to put it mildly.”
“I can imagine,” Frankie said, sinking onto a free-form black sofa. “I only wanted to tell you how sorry I am about—about Mr. Cohen. I was there when he—when it happened.”
“The cops said he collapsed on the soundstage. Is that true?”
“I’m afraid so. We had just resumed filming after lunch when Mr. Cohen came in. He seemed—perturbed.” It was a gross understatement, but she had to start somewhere.
Miss Lamont nodded. “He could be a pill when things didn’t go to suit him, and The Virgin Queen was a pet project of his. It’s a shame he couldn’t have lived long enough to see it through to the end.”
“I heard somewhere that his brother had wanted to film it in Technicolor.” There was no point in mentioning that she’d heard it while eavesdropping outside Mr. Cohen’s office.
The great actress smiled sadly, revealing a trace of the stunning beauty she had once been. “You heard right. In fact, it was the subject of more than one disagreement between them. Poor Arthur! He just couldn’t understand that the industry is changing, and he had to change along with it. He even thought I should attempt a comeback. Can you imagine that? Me, in a talkie, with this voice? No, I knew my time was up. Sometimes the best thing you can do is to bow out gracefully.” Her smile faded. “Maybe it’s better for Arthur’s sake that he didn’t live long enough to know he was becoming about as relevant as the horse and carriage.”
“How did his brother react to his death? If you don’t mind my asking,” Frankie added hastily.
“He was devastated. They were very close, never mind that they sometimes got along like oil and vinegar. In some ways they balanced each other. Maurice dragged Arthur kicking and screaming into the modern age, and Arthur reined in some of Maurice’s wilder flights of fancy.”
“Does he plan to continue filming The Virgin Queen ?”
Miss Lamont shrugged and tapped a scarlet fingernail against her long holder to dislodge the ash clinging to the end of her cigarette. “I haven’t the foggiest idea. He’s still struggling to grasp the fact that Arthur is dead. I doubt poor Maurice can even think clearly enough to imagine how he’ll carry on without him.”
Frankie had to admit it didn’t sound like the picture of a man who had killed his brother in order to grab control of the studio. And yet, could Maurice Cohen’s reaction be attributed, not to grief, but to a guilty conscience?
“I’m sure many of us will miss him,” Frankie said, not quite sure how to steer the conversation in a more informative direction. “I know I will. After all, he gave me my first big break.”
“I see.” The great actress’s mouth tightened and the temperature in the sunny room seemed to drop several degrees. “Miss Foster, if you came here expecting me to make good on my husband’s promises, I’m afraid you’re barking up the wrong tree. I can only suggest you give Hank Winston a call. It’s what my husband would have told you, anyway.”
“Mr. Cohen never promised me anything,” Frankie protested, bewildered by the widow’s suddenly cool demeanor. “In fact, I think he only offered me a job because he was interested in my friend.”
One carefully sculpted eyebrow lifted. “Oh? And what friend was this?”
“Just someone I met on the train west. His name is Mitch Gannon. Your husband offered him a position as best boy because he took some classes in electrical engineering in college.”
Miss Lamont’s brow cleared, and the lines about her mouth relaxed. “Oh, now I understand,” she said. “Yes, I can hear him now: ‘Actresses in this town are a dime a dozen, but a man with a working knowledge of electricity is worth his weight in gold.’ ”
Frankie smiled. “Something like that.”
“I apologize for jumping to the wrong conclusion, but when some girls say they’ll do anything to
“I can imagine,” Frankie said, sinking onto a free-form black sofa. “I only wanted to tell you how sorry I am about—about Mr. Cohen. I was there when he—when it happened.”
“The cops said he collapsed on the soundstage. Is that true?”
“I’m afraid so. We had just resumed filming after lunch when Mr. Cohen came in. He seemed—perturbed.” It was a gross understatement, but she had to start somewhere.
Miss Lamont nodded. “He could be a pill when things didn’t go to suit him, and The Virgin Queen was a pet project of his. It’s a shame he couldn’t have lived long enough to see it through to the end.”
“I heard somewhere that his brother had wanted to film it in Technicolor.” There was no point in mentioning that she’d heard it while eavesdropping outside Mr. Cohen’s office.
The great actress smiled sadly, revealing a trace of the stunning beauty she had once been. “You heard right. In fact, it was the subject of more than one disagreement between them. Poor Arthur! He just couldn’t understand that the industry is changing, and he had to change along with it. He even thought I should attempt a comeback. Can you imagine that? Me, in a talkie, with this voice? No, I knew my time was up. Sometimes the best thing you can do is to bow out gracefully.” Her smile faded. “Maybe it’s better for Arthur’s sake that he didn’t live long enough to know he was becoming about as relevant as the horse and carriage.”
“How did his brother react to his death? If you don’t mind my asking,” Frankie added hastily.
“He was devastated. They were very close, never mind that they sometimes got along like oil and vinegar. In some ways they balanced each other. Maurice dragged Arthur kicking and screaming into the modern age, and Arthur reined in some of Maurice’s wilder flights of fancy.”
“Does he plan to continue filming The Virgin Queen ?”
Miss Lamont shrugged and tapped a scarlet fingernail against her long holder to dislodge the ash clinging to the end of her cigarette. “I haven’t the foggiest idea. He’s still struggling to grasp the fact that Arthur is dead. I doubt poor Maurice can even think clearly enough to imagine how he’ll carry on without him.”
Frankie had to admit it didn’t sound like the picture of a man who had killed his brother in order to grab control of the studio. And yet, could Maurice Cohen’s reaction be attributed, not to grief, but to a guilty conscience?
“I’m sure many of us will miss him,” Frankie said, not quite sure how to steer the conversation in a more informative direction. “I know I will. After all, he gave me my first big break.”
“I see.” The great actress’s mouth tightened and the temperature in the sunny room seemed to drop several degrees. “Miss Foster, if you came here expecting me to make good on my husband’s promises, I’m afraid you’re barking up the wrong tree. I can only suggest you give Hank Winston a call. It’s what my husband would have told you, anyway.”
“Mr. Cohen never promised me anything,” Frankie protested, bewildered by the widow’s suddenly cool demeanor. “In fact, I think he only offered me a job because he was interested in my friend.”
One carefully sculpted eyebrow lifted. “Oh? And what friend was this?”
“Just someone I met on the train west. His name is Mitch Gannon. Your husband offered him a position as best boy because he took some classes in electrical engineering in college.”
Miss Lamont’s brow cleared, and the lines about her mouth relaxed. “Oh, now I understand,” she said. “Yes, I can hear him now: ‘Actresses in this town are a dime a dozen, but a man with a working knowledge of electricity is worth his weight in gold.’ ”
Frankie smiled. “Something like that.”
“I apologize for jumping to the wrong conclusion, but when some girls say they’ll do anything to
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