make it on the silver screen, they do mean anything . And I’m well aware that my husband was no saint. I don’t doubt he was happy to oblige a few of them.”
Frankie could feel the heat rise to her face and knew she was blushing. True, the girls at the Studio Club had talked about this very thing, but it was jarring to hear it discussed so casually by the producer’s wronged wife.
“You must have loved him very much, to be willing to forgive such—indiscretions,” Frankie observed.
The great actress cocked her head to one side, as if considering the question. “Loved him? No, I don’t think so. Few people in Hollywood marry for love, and those that do don’t last very long. We made a good team, though, Arthur and I, and I will miss him very much.”
“Had he shown any signs of heart trouble? Or do you believe it was a stroke?”
“No, no signs of ill health at all. Oh, he was under a lot of stress—it’s a stressful business, you know—and I don’t doubt he drank more than he should have. But as for what killed him, I really don’t know. I suppose it could have been either one.”
“Have you thought of asking for an autopsy?” Frankie pressed on. “That way you would know for sure.”
“My husband was Jewish, and Jewish law forbids autopsies as being disrespectful to the body.” Miss Lamont blew a series of smoke rings. “And from my own gentile viewpoint, I can’t see that it would make any difference. Arthur is gone, and no amount of poking and prodding about his body will bring him back.”
“But wouldn’t you like to know for sure if there was anything—unusual—about his death?”
The actress gave a humorless laugh. “Really, Miss—Foster, was it?—you sound almost as if you think my husband was murdered. Isn’t that what autopsies are usually for? Any man in a position of power is sure to make enemies as well as friends, but the idea that anyone would murder him is ridiculous! All we need is for Hedda Hopper or Louella Parsons to get that idea into their heads! Now I think you had better go. I would like to lie down and rest a bit before going to the funeral parlor to finalize the arrangements.”
“Of course,” Frankie mumbled, painfully aware of having worn out her welcome. She muttered a last, semi-coherent expression of sympathy, then backed out of the room and into the hallway.
The Mexican maid was nowhere in sight, so Frankie showed herself through the foyer to the door. As she crossed the austere expanse of black, white, and chrome, she suddenly realized why it reminded her of her grandmother’s house. In between the framed photographs of Letitia Lamont’s glory days on the silver screen, she could see faint rectangles of similar size where the white paint was just a shade brighter than the rest of the wall. Clearly, other photographs had once hung here.
In the case of her grandmother’s house, the pictures on the walls had hung there so long that the wallpaper beneath was a completely different color. Those pictures, some darkened with age, had been sold at an estate sale. Why had Miss Lamont’s missing photographs been removed? What had happened to them?
Chapter 9
The Big Sleep (1946)
Directed by Howard Hawks
Starring Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall
Passing through the gates of Glendale’s Forest Lawn Memorial Park, the taxi nosed its way past Cadillacs, Dusenbergs, Lincolns, and even an open-topped Cord whose sleek lines and sporty style struck a jarring note in its current somber surroundings. Beyond the parked automobiles, uniformed policemen stood guard at intervals along a length of velvet rope positioned to hold back a crowd more interested in catching a glimpse of a favorite star than in paying their final respects to Arthur Cohen. A discreet distance away, a gaggle of workers from the Shady Rest Funeral Home leaned on their shovels; after the crowds had gone home, they would go about the grim business of lowering the casket into the
Frankie could feel the heat rise to her face and knew she was blushing. True, the girls at the Studio Club had talked about this very thing, but it was jarring to hear it discussed so casually by the producer’s wronged wife.
“You must have loved him very much, to be willing to forgive such—indiscretions,” Frankie observed.
The great actress cocked her head to one side, as if considering the question. “Loved him? No, I don’t think so. Few people in Hollywood marry for love, and those that do don’t last very long. We made a good team, though, Arthur and I, and I will miss him very much.”
“Had he shown any signs of heart trouble? Or do you believe it was a stroke?”
“No, no signs of ill health at all. Oh, he was under a lot of stress—it’s a stressful business, you know—and I don’t doubt he drank more than he should have. But as for what killed him, I really don’t know. I suppose it could have been either one.”
“Have you thought of asking for an autopsy?” Frankie pressed on. “That way you would know for sure.”
“My husband was Jewish, and Jewish law forbids autopsies as being disrespectful to the body.” Miss Lamont blew a series of smoke rings. “And from my own gentile viewpoint, I can’t see that it would make any difference. Arthur is gone, and no amount of poking and prodding about his body will bring him back.”
“But wouldn’t you like to know for sure if there was anything—unusual—about his death?”
The actress gave a humorless laugh. “Really, Miss—Foster, was it?—you sound almost as if you think my husband was murdered. Isn’t that what autopsies are usually for? Any man in a position of power is sure to make enemies as well as friends, but the idea that anyone would murder him is ridiculous! All we need is for Hedda Hopper or Louella Parsons to get that idea into their heads! Now I think you had better go. I would like to lie down and rest a bit before going to the funeral parlor to finalize the arrangements.”
“Of course,” Frankie mumbled, painfully aware of having worn out her welcome. She muttered a last, semi-coherent expression of sympathy, then backed out of the room and into the hallway.
The Mexican maid was nowhere in sight, so Frankie showed herself through the foyer to the door. As she crossed the austere expanse of black, white, and chrome, she suddenly realized why it reminded her of her grandmother’s house. In between the framed photographs of Letitia Lamont’s glory days on the silver screen, she could see faint rectangles of similar size where the white paint was just a shade brighter than the rest of the wall. Clearly, other photographs had once hung here.
In the case of her grandmother’s house, the pictures on the walls had hung there so long that the wallpaper beneath was a completely different color. Those pictures, some darkened with age, had been sold at an estate sale. Why had Miss Lamont’s missing photographs been removed? What had happened to them?
Chapter 9
The Big Sleep (1946)
Directed by Howard Hawks
Starring Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall
Passing through the gates of Glendale’s Forest Lawn Memorial Park, the taxi nosed its way past Cadillacs, Dusenbergs, Lincolns, and even an open-topped Cord whose sleek lines and sporty style struck a jarring note in its current somber surroundings. Beyond the parked automobiles, uniformed policemen stood guard at intervals along a length of velvet rope positioned to hold back a crowd more interested in catching a glimpse of a favorite star than in paying their final respects to Arthur Cohen. A discreet distance away, a gaggle of workers from the Shady Rest Funeral Home leaned on their shovels; after the crowds had gone home, they would go about the grim business of lowering the casket into the
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