July 3, 1936
Like a gorilla, Johnny Roland ruled the jungle known as Hollywood. He didn’t ask permission to enter the crime scene on 21 Summit Drive; instead, he carried his reputation like a badge, daring the blue suits to refute his authority. He had arrived before the investigation began. He always did. That was his job. When the studio needed a problem fixed, they sent Johnny to do the dirty work.
Folding a stick of Clark’s Teaberry into his mouth, Johnny regarded the body on the floor. Beau Kellum’s half naked corpse lay sprawled facedown. From the angle, Kellum might have been headed to the front door when the killer plugged him. Johnny chewed. Careful of his wing tips, he tangoed around two different pools of blood, surveying. Finally, he acknowledged Detective Roy Jackson, who stood near the dead man’s feet. “Thanks for the call.”
“Like I had a choice.” Jackson’s reply was bored.
“How’s the wife?”
“You’re an ass.”
“And the girlfriend?”
“Don’t push me, Roland.”
Johnny Roland picked a piece of lint from his sleeve. “What, a friend can’t kid around?”
“I need better friends.”
“Apparently so did Kellum. I always said he’d piss off the wrong guy one day. Who found him?”
“Maid. One of my guys has her upstairs, trying to calm her down.”
“Bad way to start a day.” Johnny scanned the room. “Murder weapon?”
“Haven’t found it yet.”
Johnny slipped Jackson two C-notes. “Where’s McCord?”
Jackson took the bribe and gestured toward the back of the Beverly Hills mansion. “Kitchen. The idiot crawled through a window. Caught him going through Kellum’s desk in the library. Get him out of here so I can start doing my job, would ya?”
Johnny’d been in Beau Kellum’s place on countless occasions—usually to bring him home after a drunken bar fight. So yeah, he knew where the kitchen was. Halfway there, he paused and turned. “Where’s the dog?” he asked Jackson.
The detective scowled. “What dog?”
Johnny shook his head and continued on, wondering how crimes ever got solved in this town. Evidence that Beau Kellum owned a dog hung like a neon sign by the front door: a six-foot leash. They’d need to find that animal because, frankly, Beau Kellum’s dog, Sunset Beauregard, was easily as famous as the film star himself.
In the dimly lit kitchen, Johnny had to resist smacking Dix McCord when he found the slight man hunched on a wooden stool, his blond hair uncharacteristically mussed. “I thought I told you to watch yourself.”
“I didn’t do it, Johnny, I swear. He was dead when I got here.”
“I don’t care if you did or you didn’t.” Johnny eyed something stuffed under Dix’s shirt. “Is that what you came for?”
Dix nodded.
“Let me see.”
“Please, Johnny.”
“Now.”
Dix obeyed, giving up a handful of photographs.
Johnny flipped through them, unfazed by the images. “Kellum take these?”
“Yeah.”
“Are there others?”
“I don’t think so.”
He slapped a hand against Dix’s shoulder. “Stand up. Time to go then. I didn’t buy us time for yakking.” Johnny had no intention of walking Dix out the front door. Studio execs were grooming the pretty boy to hit the headlines as a dreamy leading man, not a murder suspect. Johnny pushed him toward the back door. “Where’d the dog go?”
Dix shuffled, tucking the secret stash back under his shirt. “Don’t know, Johnny.”
Two steps from the back door, Johnny spied a familiar pearl earring on the floor. He picked it up and slipped it into his breast pocket.
* * * *
Like an enchanted cobra, a trail of smoke slithered skyward from the tip of a lit cigarette. The lipstick-stained cigarette rested in a metal ashtray on the Andersons’ kitchen table. Dressed for a day at the diner taking orders and schlepping food, Mary Anderson unfolded the morning paper. She read the headline and fell into her chair. “Georgie,” she said, grabbing her heart. “Beau Kellum is dead.”
Mary’s husband, George, fiddled with a hinge on the kitchen cupboard. His massive hand twisted a screwdriver. “Don’t know ’im.”
“Beau Kellum, the actor. He was in The Devil Heart, Poor Pauline, and oh, what was that one about the ranch hand?” Her gaze wandered around the boxy kitchen, but the name didn’t come to her. She returned her attention to the story. “Says here he was murdered in his own house. Shot in the back.”
Working the screwdriver, George grunted. “Almost got this fixed.”
“I wonder if it was a mob hit.” Having grown up in South Boston, Mary always thought of the mob when she heard about a murder. It’s why they had left—to steal her Georgie away from the gangster-run boxing world.
“He probably just pissed off the wrong guy.”
Mary set the paper down and took a long drag from her cigarette. Smoke swelled from her mouth and nose when she spoke again. “The article don’t say nothin’ about Sunset Beauregard. I wonder what happened to him. I sure hope he’s okay.”
George stopped what he was doing to look at Mary. “Who’s Sunset Beauregard?”
“His dog. Gorgeous Irish setter. His lucky charm he used to say.”
“Guess he ain’t lucky no more.”
* * * *
Johnny Roland sat opposite the pert-nosed platinum-blond Ida Flory. Even without makeup or lighting, the actress managed to vibrate with the regal sensuality of a proud tiger. People knew Ida Flory first for her films and second for her rocky romance with Beau Kellum. Burning tobacco crackled as she sucked elegantly on a long black-and-ivory cigarette holder. In her other hand she swirled a scotch neat. Her foot twitched rhythmically.
“I swear I didn’t do it, Johnny.” She purposely blew smoke in his direction.
Johnny’s nose itched. “I don’t care if you did or you didn’t.”
“I was at his place yesterday. They’ll find my fingerprints all over the house.” Ida’s voice was smooth, her diction polished from years of training.
“I saw the blood. It was fresh. Didn’t happen during the day. Where were you last night? Late last night.”
“Home alone. Drank too much and passed out. Is that a crime? What happens when they find my fingerprints?”
“Finish your drink and simmer down. What do you think I’m here for? You think I like hiding in hotel rooms with egomaniacal actresses?” He peeled the wrapper off a stick of gum. “Frankly, fingerprints are the least of your problems, beautiful. A neighbor of Kellum’s told police about that fight you had yesterday before you went home and drank yourself silly. Says you screamed rather loudly that you’d kill him if you caught him cheating again. So now I have to find you an alibi.”
“How is it neighbors hear me yelling in the middle of the day, but not gunshots in the middle of the night? Tell me that.”
“They heard all right. Thought they were firecrackers. Kids had been setting them off for nights.”
Ida drained the glass in a single gulp and raised it in the air. “Get me another.”
A less confident man would have bristled, but not Johnny Roland. When a dame needed a scotch, he poured her a scotch. He didn’t get paid the good money to be annoyed by screen stars. He got paid to keep them in the right headlines and out of the wrong ones.
“Beau was in deep with a man named Panzini. You know him?”
Johnny knew that name all right. But he didn’t let Ida know that she’d just blindsided him with the news that Kellum had been gambling again. He kept his cool and handed her the glass. “I know Panzini.”
“So maybe it was the mob, right?”
“Maybe.”
She cocked her famously seductive eyebrow, as if a director had just yelled action. “Johnny?”
“Yeah?”
“Where is Sunny?”
“You’re babbling.”
“The dog, Johnny. Sunset Beauregard. Where is the dog?”
“I know what you meant.” Johnny shrugged. “No one knows.”
* * * *
Aching with melancholy, Mary shuffled into the kitchen where the smell of bacon improved her mood a little. George stood over the cast-iron pan easing two eggs over as they sizzled in bacon grease. She hugged his brawny bicep. “You’re makin’ breakfast? I must be the luckiest woman in the world, Georgie.”
“You sound sad, Mar. Everything okay?”
Her throat hurt from stifling a cry. “Got my lady’s day.” She patted his chest to stop him from repeating the story about Aunt Ruby and how it took her six years to get pregnant. He meant well, but the story didn’t ease her pain. She ogled the mountain of bacon he’d fried up. “That’s an awful lot, dontcha think?”
“We need to eat, right?”
“You must be exhausted. I hate you workin’ nights.”
“I sleep when I’m ready.”
Mary found the morning paper on the table. Georgie really did treat her like a queen some days. Not all, but some. “Edith says there’s a security job opening up at the studio, honey. Daytime. Good hours, good money. Will ya try for it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why not?”
“What if they ask to meet me? I don’t talk so good, ya know.”
“It’s a security job, you big lug, not vice president.” Grateful for the freshly made pot of coffee, she poured a cup, stirred in some sugar, lit a cigarette, sat, and unfolded the paper.
“Oh no,” she said. “They’re questioning Ida Flory in Beau Kellum’s murder. I love her!”
George slid a fried egg onto the plate near Mary. “Who’s that?”
“Ida Flory—Beau’s girlfriend. She was in The High Hat and The Dark Tunnel. She’s got the kinda nose I wish I had.”
“You got the perfect nose, Mar.”
“They been back and forth with goin’ out then breakin’ up, then back goin’ out again. Lots of fightin’, so I guess it kinda makes sense.” She scanned the article to the end, sighing as she set the paper aside to take a stab at the egg. “Nothin’ about Sunset Beauregard. I hope he’s okay.”
“You like dogs, sugarplum?”
“Yeah, I like dogs. We should get one someday.”
* * * *
Johnny washed his hands in the pristine basin. One of the enviable perks of his job was a bungalow on the studio lot, complete with washroom and a cleaning lady to disinfect it three times daily. He detested dirt and germs and anything remotely related, including cigarette ash and butts. Everyone on the lot knew the law: no snipes in Johnny Roland’s bungalow. Not even near it. Word was if Johnny found someone’s stamped-out butt on the ground within forty feet, he’d have them shot. Johnny smiled at the rumor. Fired, maybe, but he’d certainly never have a guy killed for a stray butt. He liked that people believed it though. The power that came from such a fear made his job easier.
He patted his hands dry with the crisp white towel, then rolled his sleeves back down. He refastened twenty-four-carat gold cuff links on the way back to his imposing mahogany desk. Situated on a love seat that faced Johnny’s desk was Grover Shaw, the man who had much to lose if Ida Flory’s reputation was tarnished. He had his future pinned on Ida’s potential box-office draw. So far, she’d made him ten times more than he’d lost at the track. Audiences loved her, women wanted to be her, and Hollywood’s prime gossip columnist gushed over her like a teenager with a mad crush.
Shaw tried to play it calm, but Johnny saw the beads of perspiration. When Johnny sat and gazed calmly out the window, Shaw dropped his composure. He took to the edge of the love seat, nervous as a cat. “What’s the plan?”
Johnny laughed. He spun the chair back around to face Shaw. “You’re asking that now? Seriously, Shaw. You’re a putz.”
“Putz? You’re calling me a putz? That’s my word.”
“I know. And you deserve to wear it.”
The phone on Johnny’s desk rang. He answered. “Thank you, Edith, put him through.” Johnny waited for the transfer while observing another bead of sweat trickle down Shaw’s fat cheek. “Detective Roy Jackson, sir,” he said eventually, “tell me a story. You find that weapon yet?”
Johnny listened to the detective without reacting. He didn’t raise a brow or twitch a finger. With each passing second, he sensed Shaw’s growing anxiety. “Right,” Johnny finally spoke into the phone again. “Now that we have that settled, Jackson, I think you should know that Beau Kellum had been sleeping with the actress Annie Diggs. A reputable source tells me Miss Diggs was upset with Kellum when he wouldn’t call things off with Ida Flory.”
Johnny laughed at Detective Jackson’s response. “Yeah, I happen to know a lot of things. For instance, how’s that habit of yours?”
Johnny hung up and folded his hands on the desk. “Ida’s alibi checked out,” he told Shaw. “She was with two friends the night of the murder. They just finished giving their accounts.”
“Ida told me she was alone that night.”
“When she talked to you, she was alone that night. Turns out she remembered later that she was with friends in Santa Monica. What exactly do you think I do all day, Shaw?”
“Just keep my name out of it, Roland.”
“I always do.”
“So you’re framing Annie Diggs.”
“You told me yourself you wanted Annie Diggs off the contract. Personally, I think she still has a few good years left, but if you think she’s too old, who am I to argue? I’m just making sure the studio stays solvent. The more money you make, the more I make. Simple math.”
“Speaking of money, that pansy Dix McCord is costing me lots of it, showing up late to the set every day.”
“You know I hate that word, Shaw.”
“Money?”
“You’re a funny guy now. Not sure you pulled it off. I’m not laughing.”
The studio exec stood. “See to it that McCord falls in line.”
Grover Shaw’s shoe caught the edge of an area rug on his way to the door, making his exit more comical than a Laurel and Hardy short. At the door, he turned to Roland once more. “Everyone is wondering about Sunset Beauregard. Any news?”
“Not yet.”
“Do something about that. The fans love that dog.”
* * * *
Mary Anderson sat at the table, anxious to read the latest on the Beau Kellum murder. She’d had a dream that the authorities had hauled poor Ida Flory off in handcuffs as she cried out her innocence to a crowd of adoring fans. Then, as is the way of dreams, Ida transformed into the stunning Irish setter Sunset Beauregard and her cries turned into muffled, distant dog barks. Mary knew it was silly to care so much about the stars as if she knew them. But she did daydream sometimes that her friend Edith would help get her a studio job, and then she’d meet big stars like Ida Flory, and they would find her funny and lovable and invite her and Georgie to fantastic parties.
As a cigarette burned in the ashtray, Mary was opening her morning paper when she heard the back screen door slam shut. George lumbered in to wash his hands.
“There you are,” Mary said. “What were ya doin’?”
“Fixin’ that line in the backyard like you asked.”
“Thanks, honey. I was afraid the clothes would just fall right to the ground and I’d have to wash ’em all over again.”
“It’s good now.” He dried his hands. “What’s the news today?”
She opened the paper and read the headline. “Ida Flory ain’t a suspect in Beau’s murder no more. Two witnesses say she was with them the night he was killed. I didn’t think it was her. She seems like a really nice lady. Classy, with morals, ya know.”
“Beau’s the guy with the dog?”
“Yeah. And Ida Flory was his girlfriend. She was a suspect, but now they’re questionin’ Annie Diggs.” Mary shook her head. “I used to love her in all those funny movies. Holy cow. Says here that Annie and Beau were having an affair. She’s married, for cripes sake. And look here, George.” She smoothed the paper and folded it just right so George could see. “That’s him. That’s Sunset Beauregard—Sunny for short. He’s a show dog. Ain’t he a beaut?”
George squinted at the paper. “Five thousand dollar reward for a dog? Are they crazy?”
* * * *
Annie Diggs stormed into Johnny Roland’s bungalow. On camera, Annie had the perfect comic timing necessary to earn the best laughs. Off camera, she’d earned a reputation for being hot-headed and difficult to control. “What’re you doin’ to me, Johnny?”
Dix McCord slunk in behind his wife, crumpling into the love seat. He removed his fedora, placing it beside him.
Sliding an open newspaper to one side, Johnny fell just short of smiling at Annie. He relished her bouts of fury, but now was not the time to provoke one. “You’re welcome.”
“Welcome? What the hell for? I barely knew Beau Kellum. Now my friends are admitting I slept with him? You of all people know that’s not true.”
“Speaking of your husband,” which Johnny knew Annie was not, “Dix, make room for your wife so she can take a load off. How about a whiskey?” Johnny got up to pour the lady a drink.
Dix moved the hat to his lap, making space for Annie. “None for me,” he said.
“I wasn’t asking you,” Johnny snapped. “Annie, sit. Relax. What’s your poison?”
Not one to take orders from any man, the comedienne held her pose. “I quit drinking. Muddies the mind, cripples the work.”
Who was she kidding? She’d been drinking plenty just a couple of nights earlier. Johnny rested on the edge of his desk. “You’re too smart for this studio, Annie, and you know it.”
“Grover wants me out, doesn’t he? He wants a reason to kill my contract. Is this his doing?”
“He wants you out, but it isn’t his doing, it’s mine.”
“Why?”
“Julius Blaine wants you, and you don’t have to sign a contract.”
“You’re playing studios against each other? You’re dirtier than I thought. I knew you didn’t have a heart, but I figured you were loyal, at least.”
Dix chuckled and shook his head. “The cameras aren’t rolling, sweetheart. You can drop the loyalty-to-the-studio act.”
Annie fired one back at Dix. “Okay, stud, how about I drop the passion-for-my-husband act?”
Johnny interrupted the tender display of marital bliss. “You don’t think I’m being loyal right now, Annie?”
She crossed her arms. “What if I don’t want to go to Blaine Studios? Word is they’re in trouble because Julius is distracted by that pervert politician son of his.”
“All the more reason Julius needs you.”
“You always say your job is to keep us out of the wrong headlines and in the right ones. So why tell the world I could be a killer?”
“A bad headline isn’t always the wrong headline for the right person, baby.”
Dix rolled the hat back onto his head and snorted. “Good line. Maybe you should take up screenwriting.”
Johnny didn’t bother to respond.
“I need to be at makeup in five minutes,” Dix said, backing off. “Can I go?”
Annie laughed. “Be sure they cover up that lingering hickey, dear. Your boyfriend gave you a good one.”
Standing, Dix played along. “See you at home, honey?”
“Can’t wait, sugar pie.”
Annie didn’t follow her husband out the door. Instead, she joined Johnny on the edge of the desk. “I never should have agreed to marry him. Hasn’t helped my career one iota. Can I divorce him now?”
“Wait until this Kellum story fades.”
“Dix was screwing Kellum.”
“Kellum thrived on adulation. He screwed anyone who fed his appetite for more.”
“I want the truth: are you sacrificing me to save Dix?”
“No.”
Annie’s shoulders relaxed. She caressed Johnny’s hand. “Come by for a drink tonight?”
“Thought you don’t partake anymore.”
“Maybe I changed my mind.”
He considered the usual evolution of that drink. One drink would lead to another and then another. And they’d all bite with the rancid flavor of menace. “I’m not thinking that far ahead right now.”
Wincing at the brush-off, she withdrew her hand. “You sure this plan is going to work?”
“Maintain your innocence and in due time, you can have your pick of projects with Julius.”
“You promise?”
“I never promise anything, Annie. You know my rule. Now go throw one of your famous tantrums and make it good.”
Annie Diggs flew out of the bungalow in a flawlessly staged rage.
Johnny smirked.
In short order though, his mouth formed a hard line. He tapped on the dog’s picture staring up at him from the newspaper. Sunset Beauregard. Where was that damn animal? Feeling the need to clear his head of this Kellum business, Johnny decided to take a little drive. He stuffed a wad of gum into his mouth, took his hat, and closed the door behind him.
* * * *
Mary woke up the next morning with the usual childless ache in her heart. But wallowing wasn’t Mary’s way. When she forced herself to roll out of bed, she found George sitting in the bedside chair. The chair was small and George was large.
“George? Is something wrong?”
“I gotta come clean, Mar.”
“My God, honey. What is it? Is it bad?”
“I ain’t proud, that’s for sure.”
George studied his hands. He balled them into fists and then relaxed them. He repeated this action over and over, the confession stuck.
“Georgie!” She shook his shoulder. “Just spit it out fast like it ain’t no big deal. Like you’re tellin’ me the time or somethin’, okay?”
He pulled in a long breath. On exhale, the words tumbled. “I been workin’ for a gangster nights, not jockeyin’ mops like I told ya, and I’m sorry I lied, but I was there the night that Beau fella was shot, and I got the dog, Mar. I got the dog.”
Mary’s head reeled from the wallop of shock. Sure, she’d had her suspicions that George wasn’t cleaning offices at night. His hours were too irregular, and he’d been sketchy on the location when she asked. But she never imagined he’d taken up with gangsters again. He hated that way of life more than she did. But this news about Beau Kellum—that was a bombshell. “You was in the house? How?”
“The guy was already dead when we got there, I swear. But did ya hear me? I got the dog.”
“What did you do to the dog?”
“I didn’t do nothin’ to him. I brung him home.”
Then Mary heard an animal snort under the bedroom door and nails scratching the wood floor.
“He’s here,” George said. “Been keepin’ him in the shed. You wanna see him? He’s real sweet.”
* * * *
Waves crashed against the pilings of the Santa Monica pier as Johnny Roland challenged the sea with a cold, brutal stare. Detective Roy Jackson stood beside Johnny, mirroring his stance—elbows on the pier railing, gaze set on the horizon.
“How did this happen?” Johnny asked the cop.
“This guy, Jones—he can’t be bought. Has principles or something.”
“You’re off the case?”
“Nah, just partnered with Jones. I can’t get him off the scent. He plans to question your Annie Diggs, but he’s bringing in Ida Flory again.”
“She’s got the alibi.”
Jackson shrugged. “You’re preaching to the wrong congregation. That’s not all. Dix McCord is on his list.”
“Christ.”
“He’s like a bloodhound this guy—he found more prints. Seven distinct fingerprints. It was like Grand fudgin’ Central, that house.”
Johnny broke his stare to raise an eyebrow at Jackson. “Fudgin’?”
“The wife’s on me to watch my mouth around the kids. Set a good example, that kinda shit.”
Johnny huffed. He set his gaze back to the waves. “Oh yeah, you’re a good example.”
“You’re an ass. What do you know about the fingerprints, Roland?”
“What do you know about the dog?” Johnny countered.
“Looks like he escaped out the back door. Possibly with a male, size-twelve shoe.”
“Maybe someone snuffed the dog.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. If Jones finds the dog alive, he’s planning to hire an animal psychologist. Figures the dog is a witness.”
“Sounds like this Jones guy is in need of some analysis himself.”
“You didn’t answer me about the prints.”
“This Jones, does he have a wife? Girlfriend? Boyfriend?”
“Not that I’m aware.”
Johnny pushed away from the railing. “Get me his address.” He wasn’t about to let a cop with a conscience get in his way. He straightened one shirt cuff, then the other, and strode back down the long pier toward land.
* * * *
Mary held George’s sweaty hand. He was more nervous than she was, and she felt ready to faint dead away. Together they trailed behind her best friend, Edith. Edith had been acting strangely the last couple of days, but Mary didn’t know where else to turn. When she had confided in Edith their situation with Sunset Beauregard, the color had drained from Edith’s face, but right away, she’d known what to do.
Now they walked across the studio lot, following Edith, who was taking them to meet her boss, Mr. Roland. Mary tingled from nerves and excitement. She hadn’t spotted anyone famous like Clark Gable or Greta Garbo, but she was almost positive she’d caught a glimpse of that dreamy new actor, Dix McCord. All the ladies just loved him.
“Hey, Edith,” Mary asked, “I see you’re wearin’ your earrings again.”
Her friend touched her ears, then waved it off like it was no big deal. “Oh yeah, found ’em in some silly place.”
From the day Edith’s new beau gave her the pearl earrings, Mary hadn’t known her to ever take them off long, much less lose track of them.
Edith stopped at a small building with big windows and a fancy wooden door. She knocked only once before opening the door. “Mr. Roland, they’re here. My friend and her husband. Like I told ya.”
George and Mary crossed over the Oriental rugs that covered polished wooden floors. Mary had never seen such fancy furnishings. Mr. Roland sat behind a desk that looked big enough for three men. He had perfect black hair and a heavy brow. He wore a ring on his right pinky finger. And he might be a tall man, but Mary figured she wasn’t going to find out for sure since he hadn’t bothered to stand upon their arrival.
Edith closed and locked the door. She ushered Mary and George to the love seat. Edith remained standing.
“You okay, Edith?” Mr. Roland asked her friend.
Mary thought his question was odd. She craned her neck to see Edith’s reaction.
“I’m good,” Edith replied with a small nod. Then added, as if an afterthought, “sir.”
“And you’re sure about this?”
“I am. They’s good people. I’d trust ’em with my life.”
“They are, Edith. They are,” he corrected.
“Right. I’m working on that.”
Mary heard the effort in Edith’s voice as she stressed to enunciate working. Keenly aware that the air was charged, Mary knew now that Edith had been holding something back. She wasn’t sure what, but it was something all right. She began to worry for her friend.
Mr. Roland gave Mary his attention. “You’re Mary Anderson?”
“Yes, sir,” she answered, feeling like a witness on trial.
“Call me Johnny.”
Mary wasn’t sure she could do that comfortably, but she’d try. “Okay.”
“You’re George?” Johnny Roland asked her husband.
George stared at the floor. “Yes, sir, Johnny.”
“You were at the house the night Beau Kellum was killed?”
“Yes, sir, Johnny.”
“Just Johnny, George. No sir. We’re all friends here.”
George lifted his gaze, looking Johnny in the eye.
“Did you see the body?” Johnny asked George.
“No, sir. I mean, Johnny.”
“Were you in the house at all?”
“No, sir, I mean, Johnny.”
“Didn’t I just say we were friends, George?”
“Yes.”
“Do friends lie to one another?”
“If they do, they shouldn’t,” George answered.
“That’s right, George. So now that we’re friends, tell me where you were in that house, because I know you were there.”
“A hallway at the back of the place. There was a couple a lights on the wall. That’s as far as I got. I was wit’ a guy, and we were just supposed to scare this Kellum fella, ya know. Not hurt ’im or nothin’. Just make him think we would if he didn’t pay up.”
“Who was this other guy?”
George paused before answering. “Just a guy. Don’t know his name.”
“He saw the body?”
“Yeah.”
“You and this other guy—you were working for Bruno Panzini?”
“Aw, Mr. Johnny, ya gotta understand. I can’t say.”
Mary was relieved when Mr. Roland didn’t press George to admit the gangster’s name.
“And the dog—why did you steal the dog?”
“I wasn’t meanin’ to take him. He wouldn’t let me leave. He’s what stopped me in the hallway, whinin’ and nudgin’ at me. I couldn’t leave him there like that. He was just beggin’ me to get him out.”
“So you want the reward money.”
“Johnny,” Edith said, jumping into the conversation. “I mean Mr. Roland, that’s not what I—”
Johnny waved a hand at Edith. “Let them talk, Edith.”
Like a light switched on, Mary knew what was bothering her about Edith. She never admitted the man she’d been seeing was an actor, but Mary always suspected as much by the secrecy. Edith’s mystery flame had to be Beau Kellum. He was exactly her type.
Mary pressed forward, responding to Johnny’s assumption. “We don’t want the money.” Her voice had gone hoarse. She cleared her throat. “We want Sunset Beauregard.”
“That’s a lot of money you’re giving up just to own a dog.”
Mary fidgeted on the love seat, her head throbbing from the tension. “Also, we were hopin’ you could see that Georgie gets that security guard job here at the studio. If he has a good, steady job, I can quit work and we can start a family.”
“A dog and a job. That’s all you want from me?”
Mary nodded.
The powerful man stared at her and then at George. He leaned slowly over his desk. “It isn’t as simple as that, you understand. Right, Mary?”
“I figured as much.”
“Here I am sitting five feet away from the two of you, and the stench of cigarette smoke is enough to make my stomach churn. You’ll both have to quit. Sunset Beauregard deserves a clean house. Can you agree to that?”
Edith often remarked to Mary on Johnny’s queer disdain for cigarettes, but Mary had never expected this comical demand as a condition of keeping Sunset Beauregard. She was too terrified of the man to laugh, however. She exchanged confused looks with George. “Uh, I guess we could do that,” she answered. “George, you okay with that?”
George shrugged. “Sure.” But then his face caved in a little. “Is drinkin’ all right? Mar and I like a beer some nights.”
For the first time since they’d arrived, Johnny Roland stood. Mary realized he resembled an ape with that heavy forehead and wide shoulders. But now, his fierce brow softened, and she thought he almost smiled.
“You can have your beers, George,” Johnny said. He pushed his chair back and adjusted the lapels of his jacket. “But there are a few other stipulations as well.”
* * * *
Johnny Roland sent the awkward couple on their way with instructions to wait for Edith’s visit that night. She’d arrive with a contract, which they were to sign and follow to the letter.
Before closing the door behind her, Edith whispered to him, “Thank you again, Johnny. I just don’t know how I can ever repay you for all you done.”
“You can start by reading that grammar book I gave you.”
“You make jokes, but you saved my life, and I won’t ever forget that as long as I live.”
When the door closed behind them, Johnny opened every window in the place. Despite their odor, he couldn’t help but like the Andersons. Edith had apprised him of their wishes to keep the dog before the meeting. Knowing the studio wanted Sunset back in the spotlight, she proposed a clever arrangement that, frankly, he should have concocted himself. The scheme would keep Sunset Beauregard and the Andersons together as well as pay out a much-needed publicity jackpot for the studio and Ida Flory. Everyone would win.
Johnny was atomizing the air with citrus oil when Grover Shaw shoved the bungalow’s front door open without knocking.
This annoyed Johnny, but showing annoyance was weak. He’d be done in this city if he became weak. Instead he studied the studio exec’s bald head. It was as red as a party balloon. Johnny pointed to his wet bar. “Have a drink before you pop a cork, Shaw.”
Shaw made a beeline, poured a whiskey, and tossed it back in a single, frantic motion. He slammed the empty highball back down and wiped his mouth. “I thought you’d fixed things.”
“You’re confusing life with those moving pictures of yours, Shaw. Things aren’t black and white. You need to learn patience and have a little faith.”
“I need assurances, Roland. Ida tells me they grilled her and Dix McCord down at the precinct like there’s evidence against them. I may not care for Dix personally, but he’s a studio asset. And if I lose Ida, I don’t know what I’ll do.”
“What if I told you we found Sunset Beauregard?”
“Yesterday that would have been great news. Today, that doesn’t cure this ulcer growing in my gut.”
“Find Ida and tell her that she’s about to be the proud owner of a beloved Irish setter that, by the grace of God, has been found healthy and unharmed. Edith is working the media angle now. She’ll have the dog in Ida’s possession in time for appropriate photo opportunities.”
“What about the police?”
Johnny wanted to wallop the fat bastard. “I might tell them you killed Kellum so I can get some peace around here.”
Grover Shaw did a poor job of feigning indignation when he slammed the door behind him. Of course, the problem cop had to be dealt with. Johnny had nothing on him. Things would have to get messy. Johnny closed and locked the windows, washed his hands, donned his hat, and then took a short drive to a dark restaurant where he knew he’d find mob capo Bruno Panzini holding court at his usual table in the corner.
When he left the restaurant a half hour later, he’d been assured the scrupulous do-gooder, Detective Jones, wouldn’t be healthy enough to ask questions much longer.
On the sidewalk, with cars buzzing past, Johnny shielded his eyes from the sun and calculated his next move. He needed one more story now. One so big that it would bury this Kellum problem once and for all. The bright infamy of a Hollywood scandal was always easily dimmed when a new scandal emerged. Without knowing it, Annie Diggs had planted the seed of that new scandal in Johnny’s mind. What if I don’t want to go to Blaine Studios? she had said. Word is they’re in trouble because Julius is distracted by that pervert politician son of his.
Johnny knew all about Senator Marshall Blaine’s vices. He got in his car and drove a few blocks to the Fairmont Hotel, where he parked across the street. He slid down in his seat and pulled his hat over his eyes. Twenty minutes later, a Rolls pulled up to the lobby door of the Fairmont. The doorman wrenched the back door open, and two young girls emerged. They were dressed and made up to look older than their probable thirteen or fourteen years, but Johnny knew better.
The girls scampered into the hotel, ushered by a man Johnny knew as Julius Blaine’s right-hand man. Sadly, those girls weren’t going in for ice cream sodas. Soon, Marshall Blaine would slip into the hotel through the back entrance. Blaine was a state senator with his sights set on the White House. It was common knowledge around town that Blaine liked them young, and he liked them off Daddy’s studio lot. Unfortunately for Blaine, he also liked them at the same time every week. The man revolted Johnny. He had no problem using the pay phone on the corner to call the police. He called Edith too. Politicians could be tricky about burying their crimes, but Edith knew reporters with agendas.
Johnny didn’t wait for the squad cars. Instead, he drove west toward the sea, toward home.
Inside his Malibu retreat, with walls washed pink by the setting sun, Johnny found a gorgeous blond draped over his brown leather sofa. Sick and tired of spoiled studio brats, Johnny threw his hat onto a chair. He turned his back to the unwanted guest and poured a tall scotch.
“Pour me one too?” the blond asked.
Johnny stared at his glass. “Go home.”
“But the sunset. It’s so beautiful. Let’s watch it together.”
“Don’t make me throw you out.”
“Please, Johnny. I think I’m falling in love with you.”
Snapping, Johnny growled and hurled the glass across the room. As the glass shattered, he spun and charged pretty-boy Dix McCord, seizing him by the shirt collar. Johnny pulled him close. “Are you falling in love with me like you fell in love with Beau Kellum? Is that how you show men you love them—with bullets?”
Rendered helpless, Dix moaned. “I told you I didn’t—”
“I know you did. You weren’t alone in the house with Kellum.”
“Who saw?”
Johnny would take Edith’s identity to the grave. “She didn’t see anything. She heard plenty.”
“I thought you didn’t care if I did it.”
Johnny Roland didn’t have a snappy comeback. Dread washed over him like a brutal storm. Maybe he did care. But in the jungle, when you care, you’re done for.
Tears streamed down Dix McCord’s cheeks. “He was awful to me, Johnny. So awful. I gave him everything, and he gave me nothing back.”
Johnny released him back into the couch. “Kellum loved no one but himself. That’s not a reason to shoot him in the back.”
“He was blackmailing me. Your lady witness must’ve missed that part.”
“The pictures.”
Dix nodded. He wept, his head buried in his hands now. “I never wanted to shoot him. Just scare him into giving me the photos. But then he was so smug and said he was going to go outside and shout to the whole world what I was. He wasn’t afraid of me at all. And then, I don’t know what happened, but I just fired. I fired and I ran.”
So that was the real story. Kellum needed money to pay off Panzini, so he was bleeding Dix dry.
When Johnny had confronted Edith with the lost earring the day after the murder, she spilled her own story about that night. She’d gone to Kellum’s to break it off, but he wooed her upstairs to his bedroom again, like he always did. She wasn’t proud of it. They’d only made it to the top of the stairs when Dix stormed into the house shouting, raging. The screaming incited Sunset Beauregard to bark incessantly. When Kellum left her to deal with Dix, she closed the bedroom door. From upstairs, over the din of Sunny’s barking, Edith made out what sounded like a lovers’ quarrel, the revelation of which shocked her to the core. Terrified when the shots were fired, she hid in the closet in case Dix came after her. Eventually, she crept downstairs and found Kellum dead in the middle of the floor. She panicked. She didn’t want to be a suspect or a witness, so she fled. Sunset followed her as she ran to escape out the back door. That’s where she assumed she lost the earring, hugging the agitated dog before she pushed him away to leave.
“Where’s the gun?” Johnny asked Dix.
“Drove it to the canyon. Buried it. When I got back, I realized I’d bolted without the damn pictures.”
Johnny poured two drinks. He handed one to Dix. “Going back for the photographs wasn’t the stupidest thing you did. Not coming to me when Kellum started blackmailing you—that was your mistake.”
“I was trying to watch myself—like you told me to.”
Johnny was tired. He didn’t want to talk anymore. “You can stay here tonight, but you’re sleeping on the couch. Tomorrow you’ll go the studio, make a movie, and pretend like none of this ever happened. I’m going outside to be alone and clear my head. You understand?”
Dix wiped his eyes. “Yes, Johnny.”
On his balcony overlooking the sea, Johnny closed his eyes and let the sound of the waves calm him.
* * * *
Mary and George Anderson walked hand in hand on their new ranch in the Valley. Sunset Beauregard raced in front of them, his shiny red coat a metaphor for their shiny new life. Of course, they didn’t call him Sunny anymore. He was Bo Bo now, and he answered to his new name with enthusiasm.
Five days a week, George drove his new Chrysler Imperial into town, worked eight hours as a front gate security guard, then drove home to be with his Mary and Bo Bo. Sunset Beauregard, it turned out, had been their lucky charm.
Mary never stopped reading the headlines. The day after she and George met with Edith’s boss, the entire front page was dedicated to the arrest of state Senator Marshall Blaine. He’d been caught with two underage starlets from his father’s studio. “Poor girls,” she told George, as she popped a cherry gumdrop into her mouth to ward off a cigarette craving. A small story three pages in mentioned that Ida Flory, Annie Diggs, and her husband, actor Dix McCord, had all been questioned in Beau Kellum’s murder, but no charges were filed.
The next day, state Senator Blaine was still front-page fodder. Scanning for news of the Beau Kellum investigation or anything about Sunset Beauregard, Mary found a three-paragraph column about the apparent accidental death of LA police detective Fred Jones. His car had careened off the road in the canyons, bursting into flames. His partner, Roy Jackson, was quoted in the paper. “He was a good cop,” Jackson said. “One of LA’s finest.”
On the morning of the day when they were to pick up the keys for the ranch, Mary marveled at the front page photo. “Look, George, he looks just like Bo Bo.” She showed the paper to George, who laughed at the headline. “Sunset Beauregard Found, Ida Flory Gives Him Happy Home.” In the photograph, a smiling Ida Flory, revealing the right amount of leg, held onto a leash. At the end, posed and panting, was an Irish setter that the world now believed was the missing Sunset Beauregard. Mary could see the difference in their eyes, but mostly, the likeness was remarkable.
Their first morning in the ranch house, Mary read that Annie Diggs, still a person of interest in Beau Kellum’s murder, had been released from her contract with her current studio and was being wooed by Julius Blaine. Julius wanted Annie’s brand of comedy at his studio. The reporter speculated that Blaine needed Annie Diggs in order to shift focus away from his son’s scandal and legal troubles. And another article talked about Ida Flory starring with Dix McCord in an epic biblical saga.
Two years later, Mary, five-months pregnant, stroked Bo Bo’s head as she flipped through the morning paper. George worked a screwdriver at a sticky hinge on one of the kitchen cupboards. “Look here,” she said. “An article about unsolved murders in Hollywood. They got a bit here about Beau Kellum.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Says the detective on the case never found any credible leads. He figures they may never know who killed Beau Kellum.”
“Maybe that’s as it should be, huh, Mar?”
Of course, Mary knew who had killed Beau Kellum. A couple of months after the murder, Edith told Mary everything.
Beau Kellum played majestic heroes on the big screen, but in his own life, he played people for chumps. He was the lowly sort who gave pretty pearl earrings to pretend he was sorry for the heartache he caused. Her friend deserved way better than the selfish, puffed-up Beau Kellums of the world. Edith deserved a man who gave her love and respect. Thankfully, she had that now.
“You’re right, Georgie, that’s as it should be.” Mary folded the paper. “Hey, Edith says she and Johnny can make it for dinner this weekend. Should I cook a chicken or pot roast?”
Karen Cantwell enjoys writing both short stories and novels. Her stories have appeared in Chesapeake Crimes: They Had it Comin’, Chesapeake Crimes: This Job is Murder, and Noir at the Salad Bar: Culinary Tales with a Bite. On the novel front, Karen loves to make people laugh with her Barbara Marr Murder Mystery series and Sophie Rhodes Ghostly Romance series. You can learn more about Karen and her works at www.KarenCantwell.com.