HOLLYWOOD DREAMS OF DEATH

TIM LASIUTA

inspired by “I Think I’m Going Bald”

HOLLYWOOD, 1936

Lazlo Delorean wiped the knife clean after pulling it out of the prostrate man on the ground. He smiled a sardonic smile and looked around the room then, with a brush of his hand, pushed his flowing hair back into position.

“You made me do it, Lyle,” said the actor. “Just couldn’t keep the secret. What happens behind closed doors in Hollywood stays behind closed doors. You should’ve known that.”

Delorean put the knife into a velour bag and glanced one more time around the room. He stepped over the body and looked at the framed photos on the wall. Friends and coworkers’ images in black and white signed To Lyle Davies, with love adorned the walls.

“Ahh, Olivia De Havilland. Claudette, my darling. We could have made a beautiful couple. Errol. Bogart. Cooper,” the actor murmured. “You all had secrets, too. No one will know them now.”

The police arrived at the trailer of the dead makeup man within minutes. In a city built on celluloid lies, a place where rumor replaced truth as the most valuable commodity, the media frenzy was unlike anything else on Earth.

The murder of RKO’s top makeup artist moved through Tinseltown like light through a vacuum, and the police cordon came up almost as fast as the first studio moguls appeared on scene.

“Mr. Selznick, come this way,” a studio runner called to a sleepy-looking man stumbling out of a limousine beside the soundstage and makeup trailer. “Follow me, please.”

A full squadron of policemen manned the cordon while Inspectors talked to potential witnesses and examined the scene. Bright lights illuminated the crime scene perimeter. Despite the lateness of the hour, a full crowd had gathered behind the line and murmured among themselves. “I heard it was suicide . . . He was having an affair . . . Lyle was a lovely man, wouldn’t hurt a fly . . . I hope they get whoever did this . . .”

Inside the trailer, the Hollywood detective force had gathered to examine the crime scene. Clearly used to crime in a community that thrived on exploitation, the head investigator, George Braham, ordered the trailer shut and gag orders issued to the studio.

“Believe me, Mr. Selznick, you don’t want this getting out,” said the tall, handsome police inspector. “This is the third murder in the studio over the last five or six weeks, and the second this month. I think you’ve got a murderer on your payroll, sir, or someone doing real-life research.”

The studio head looked around the crime scene and back at the inspector, then grinned. “I agree we do have a problem. Have you seen our last two pictures?”

The inspector frowned. “This, sir, is no time for jokes. You have two dead people in three weeks. TWO. And you can crack jokes?”

Selznick’s demeanor changed. “Sgt. Braham, I have a studio to run, and while I lament the loss of Mr. Davies and Miss Penny, I will do my job and you will do yours. If you have any questions, contact my secretary. She knows everything.”

A young officer stepped in the way of the departing studio executive. “Sir. This is a closed investigation. You cannot leave until the inspector says so.”

Selznick turned around and stepped into Braham’s personal space and blew cigar smoke into his face. “What do you want me to do?”

The inspector stepped back.

“What can you tell me about Davies?” asked the sergeant. “Give me the skinny and you can go be a producer again.”

Selznick sneered and began to sing like a canary.

Lazlo Delorean was a Hollywood legend. For more than a decade, his face had graced the movie posters that drew crowds around North America. While not having the rugged star appeal of a young John Wayne or Errol Flynn, his flowing blondish hair and deep blue eyes were pure gold for Hollywood programmers.

And he knew it.

Delorean stared in the mirror, gently turning his head from left to right, then up and down, staring at his face with a critical eye.

“Let’s face it, Lazlo,” he said, running a hand over his flowing hair. “The face that made a million women swoon in their seats, and it’s all yours. And hers,” he added looking back into the bedroom, where Delila Delorean lay seductively on the bed waiting for her husband.

They had wed five years previously after a torrid romance on the set of a John Ford film where Delila had played the part of a settler’s wife and Delorean was second lead to a young John Wayne. Back then, Lazlo had just come off a successful series of detective films in the vein of Dashiell Hammett’s The Thin Man, and in the interim, Ford had approached him for his film.

Delila, on the other hand, was fresh out of the Midwest and straight off the bus. Wide-eyed and dream driven, the young actress gravitated to RKO and gleaned a bit part after she caught the eye and the couch of an ambitious assistant producer. One day on the set of the Ford film and the aspiring starlet was lost to Lazlo, and he to her.

That was then.

“Darling, come to bed. You’ve been gone for two hours already and baby wants her cuddles,” said Delila sleepily. “I want to run my fingers through your gorgeous hair.”

A switch clicked inside the model-turned-actor and a spring returned to his step. He looked at his wife and smiled deeply, then took a step toward her, dropping his robe.

“Say it again, Delila. This time, purr when you say my name,” he murmured.

“Lazzzzzllllooooo . . .”

The sun rose a few hours later to a satisfied Lazlo lying in bed. His wife was snuggled up to him with her head resting against his chest. She breathed softly while he breathed more heavily. He reached over and stroked her hair.

Meanwhile, back at RKO, Braham and the squad of Hollywood detectives continued to examine the makeup studio of the late Lyle Davies. One man dusted for fingerprints on the photos and smiled impishly when he discovered lip marks on several of the starlets. Another had been examining the desk by the mirror for traces of blood and fibers. He was puzzled as he turned his attention to the carpet.

“Detective,” said the young man. “How do we look for evidence in a zebra-print shag carpet?”

The senior investigator was standing away from the scene lost in thought.

“Detective!” the young man asked again, drawing him from his dream-like state.

“Good question. Have you ever thought of hiring a Native guide? Keep digging and something will turn up. Get that photographer, Costello, to take as many shots as he can,” said the detective. “That’s how you learn. Evidence can hide anywhere. When I was a young detective, a murder weapon was hid in a trunk under a chiffon dress. Once we discovered it, it was an open-and-shut case.”

With the body gone, Braham was trying to determine the hidden mystery behind the murder. He walked in and pretended to stab a phantom. He did it again, and again, and then snapped his fingers. In a soundstage across the lot, a choir struck up a rhythm.

“The victim knew his killer,” exclaimed Braham. “If he didn’t, there would have been struggle marks and makeup all over the place. The scene was clean, telling us he knew whoever killed him. We couldn’t find the murder weapon, but if we had to look, every soundstage is full of knives.”

Behind the desk, a voice piped up. “Sir, if you recall, the crime scene was similar to Miss Penny’s. Perhaps we do have the same killer?”

Braham sat down on the couch in the trailer and pondered the idea. “I said that last night, but I was only half serious. But it may be . . .” continued the investigator as he launched into a soliloquy from Hamlet. “To sleep, perchance to dream . . .”

The police cars roared down Rodeo Drive screaming emergency and turned left into a prestigious crescent and through a series of gates. Designed to be a home away from home for Delorean, this was his refuge, his Xanadu.

Three police cruisers screeched to a stop in front of the Victorian-style home, and policemen opened the doors and ran to the front door. The Hollywood detectives had been at this game for more than two decades, and they salivated inwardly at the potential of a scandal like the Fatty Arbuckle case on their watch.

Braham stepped out of the lead cruiser and walked to the door. He knocked and almost immediately a wizened butler answered with a question on his lips. “How may I help you, sirs?”

Taking a step into the mansion, Braham looked around as he spoke to the butler. “Sir, we are here to arrest Lazlo for the murders of Davies, Penny, Slater, and his wife, Delila. Where is he?”

From the living room to the left, Lazlo walked into the foyer dressed in a silk evening housecoat. He was sipping a cognac and had his arms around a Hollywood starlet. He was immediately surrounded by the detectives. Braham put the cuffs on him. Lazlo glared at the police inspector.

“I’m innocent,” he yelled. “I’m innocent. Alfred, call my lawyer and the press!”

Braham and the police officers sped away from Lazlo’s home and drove toward headquarters. The inspector had been through star arrests and the piranha-like feeding frenzy of the tabloid press. He feigned annoyance, but he secretly thrilled at the prospect of the confrontation. Perhaps it was his love of Shakespearean drama, which he engaged on the weekends secretly. Perhaps it was his sense that stardom did not mean entitlement. Either way, he had bitten off a big assignment this time and he was determined to see it through.

By the time the police had arrived at the station house, it had started.

Flashbulbs exploded as the three cars arrived on scene and the handsome actor was taken out of a vehicle into the station house. Braham’s men ran interference as he took Lazlo in through a side door, past holding cells, and to a processing desk where an officer removed the cuffs and logged Lazlo in.

Outside, the reporters and photographers were working themselves into a frenzy. Braham stepped up to the mike.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the inspector, “tonight, at 8:10 p.m., the Hollywood Precinct arrested Lazlo Delorean on suspicion of committing multiple murders. I’ll take your questions.”

A dozen hands went up. A bedraggled middle-aged man stuck his hand up.

“Karl, from the Hollywood Reporter,” said Braham. “Your question?”

The reporter moved through the crowd and stopped in the front row. “Do you think these charges will hold? Or will they disappear like the Loch Ness Monster?”

The crowd laughed.

“Karl, we have solid evidence to link Lazlo with the four murders,” offered the detective. “We do not intend the murders to go unsolved or, worse yet, have this investigation turned into a Dick Powell murder mystery film.”

More hands went up.

“Any idea when you’ll have more information?” asked an attractive reporter from the Los Angeles Times.

Sgt. Braham turned to where the voice came from. “By tomorrow afternoon, there will be a full press conference with more details.”

The press dispersed and the lies began.

June 1933 was a good year for Lazlo.

He had just finished a film with Fay Wray after her triumph in King Kong. Something had started that Lazlo could not control, yet he would grow to understand intimately.

The Passion of Gilbert was written by Hollywood’s most prolific scripter and starred Hollywood’s hottest leading man and woman, yet beneath the romantic skin, sinister undertones resembled real life.

Wray and Lazlo’s love scene was torrid. In pristine sepia tone, the glint in Lazlo’s eye and the emotion Wray portrayed had struck a nerve.

“Gilbert,” said the young actress, her eyes boring deep into her lover’s soul as Lazlo moved to put his arms around her. He oozed sexuality while the actress tilted her head back slightly to expose her pale white neck. He began kissing it gently.

During rehearsal it had not always gone so smoothly. Studio crews had witnessed his disdain for the lighting and the lack of a gentle breeze, which would have showcased his hair.

“Raoul, more light and, please, a little more breeze,” Lazlo would say with conviction.

Every time, the director would deny the request with a wave of his hand and walk away muttering, “Talk to Selznick.”

It only took one temper tantrum and he won.

“What Lazlo wants, Lazlo gets,” became the buzzword at RKO. Meanwhile for extras and studio services, it was “stay away from Lazlo.”

After Lazlo’s arrest, RKO Studios rereleased his early films with great economic success. Yukon Quest struck gold in a second run, and Noonday Sun raked in bushels of greenbacks. The unreleased romantic comedy, Panacea, was soon a bonafide hit in the cinema chains.

“A great send-off for a suspected murderer,” said Variety.

“The last great film of Hollywood’s most handsome murderer,” added the Los Angeles Times.

“Ghost of Lyle Davies seen in Grauman Theatre screening of You Only Die Once,” the banner of the Hollywood Reporter screamed to readers.

July 6 was the first day of the trial.

The downtown Los Angeles courtroom was packed with press members and, outside, the overflow gallery was packed as well. Judge Garrett was the presiding official, and the state had appointed Mary Pason. Lazlo had secured the best his fame could buy, Counsel Gavin Bates who, only a year earlier, had successfully defended a man caught with a knife in his hand on the charge of murder and got him released on his own recognizance. Lazlo knew he had a winner on his hands.

Lazlo walked into the courtroom, and the ladies swooned. He smiled and looked around the room. Judge Garrett banged his gavel to bring order to the courtroom, read the charges, then called Counsel Bates, who presented his opening argument.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I maintain that Lazlo Delorean, being of sound mind and body, is innocent of the charges of murder of Lyle Davies, Nora Penny, Brenda Slater, and Delila Delorean,” intoned Bates. “At the times of those murders, he has alibis that can be substantiated and verified. In fact, we hold that these crimes should be classified as unsolved and my client be allowed to continue his acting and modeling career.”

Legal counsel for the state Pason stared at Lazlo, who sat beside his lawyer. Clad in a tuxedo, the actor cracked the smallest of smiles in an attempt to penetrate her cold veneer. Pason shook her head slowly and turned to look at the jury.

“Members of the jury, we live in a culture that worships beauty,” said Pason, looking back at Delorean. “When one of these demigods is arrested and accused of heinous crimes, we have to look past the beauty, the perfect image, and the illusion. I will prove that Delorean is a vicious, violent killer who is guilty of four murders. He was found with the weapon in his possession.”

Pason walked back to her desk and picked up four pictures and showed them to the jurors. “Lyle Davies, makeup artist. Dead at the hand of Delorean. Nora Penny’s life taken. Brenda Slater, killed with the same knife used to murder Davies and Penny. Last, Delila Delorean, wife of the accused, found dead in her bed while her husband supposedly was playing tennis,” said Pason. “Your job is to see past the lies and listen to the evidence.”

The casting call for Top Hat went out in November 1934, and Lazlo, on a brief hiatus from the Hollywood life, had arranged for his agent to come by the house.

“Phillip,” said Delorean. “Can you make a call to see when I can audition to work with Astaire?”

His agent laughed while the men watched the birds fly off the swimming pool in the back of the estate.

“Seriously, Lazlo?” he said. “I mean, you know the rumors. Astaire has said he doesn’t want to work with you.”

Delorean grimaced. “I know. I do want to try to spread my wings. Too many romances, too many Westerns. They’re bad for my skin and that gets in the way when I pose for movie posters and magazine covers. You can only do the same pose so many times.”

Phillip smiled in agreement and struck a pose while Lazlo pretended to take a picture. “I will see, but be on your best behavior on the lot,” warned the agent.

Delorean’s audition was a failure. Compared to the grace of Astaire, Lazlo danced like a duck with a limp, although he was cast as the manager.

For Delorean, though, it was good. Three weeks of work on his contract, and three weeks with the delightful Brenda Slater, who was his personal massage therapist and dance instructor and, if rumors were true, his most current secret flame.

Two years into his marriage to Delila, Delorean’s passion for his wife had cooled while his demands for attention and hers for privacy grew.

“Lazlo,” said Slater, lying on the divan in her studio-supplied therapy trailer. “You know, once this film is done, so are we.”

Delorean stood by the window looking over the back studio lot toward the Hollywood Hills and the vineyards that still dotted the far reaches of his view. He turned to look at the beauty clad only in a scarcely there night jacket and breathed deeply.

“Yes, that may well be true,” said the actor. “But we will always have Top Hat, won’t we?”

Lazlo walked toward Slater slowly and shook his hair slightly, wiggling his hips seductively.

“Yes, we will, but there is one thing I have to ask you, darling,” said Slater softly as she stood up and moved her lips toward his head . . .

A knock at the door broke the atmosphere. Then the door came tumbling down as Delila stepped over the debris holding an ax.

“So sorry for the mess, darling. I’m sure Lazlo will make it up to you somehow,” said Delila, who threw the axe down then slapped the actor across the face and kicked the divan over before security arrived and restrained her.

The actress fought and wiggled in the strong grip of the men as she looked at her husband, who had a red welt forming on the right side of his face.

“You think I didn’t know,” she said, seething with anger. “You thought I would take your dalliances and accept them.”

Still looking surprised, Delorean tried to speak.

“What do you have to say now, lover boy?” she screamed at the top of her lungs. “Oh, I know, ‘Someone, a little more breeze on my hair now.’ Is that it?”

The stunned actor regained his composure and steeled his nerves. “How dare YOU! I am a STAR!” screamed Lazlo.

Delila tried to break free from the grip of security again and arched toward the actor. “And I am your wife! Remember?”

Turning to the security guards, who had now stopped struggling with his enraged wife, he glared at the pair of men. “Remove this woman from this trailer! Now!”

Slater stood up holding her nightie around her tightly and looked for a housecoat. Grabbing one off the end of the divan, she tied it up quickly and slapped the actor on the other side of his face.

“This is MY trailer, Delorean,” she howled before kicking the actor in the shins and privates.

A second set of security guards had by now entered the trailer, and held back the second woman while Delorean writhed on the floor.

“I’ve been kissed better by Silver!” screamed Slater.

A crowd had gathered outside the trailer attracted by the raised voices that echoed between the buildings.

“Get OUT!” she yelled. “You, too, Delila. Take your Samson and get out. NOW!”

Delorean and his wife were led to their vehicles parked in the employee lot. In the distance, the pair could hear Slater ranting to anyone who would listen. An uneasy silence fell between the couple and the security guards, who were now joined by two more men and met by Selznick at Delorean’s limo.

“Lazlo,” he said, defeated, “take some time off until this blows over. I’m not sure what happened, but Slater is trouble. She took down a top dog over at MGM last year. She kisses, and tells anyone who will listen.”

Selznick waved the limo on and stood with his hands in his pockets. Delila spun her convertible out of the studio lot.

“Oy vey. RKO just hit gold . . . thanks, Delorean,” he said as he turned and walked to the office, whistling as he walked.

The second day of trial raised the public ante.

“Oh, Lazlo is a stable, professional actor to work with,” said Adam Hale, a portly actor under contract to RKO and co-star of numerous adventure films. “I’ve never seen him lose his cool, but I did see him lose his car keys once after too many Key Limes at the Coconut Club.”

Clark Gable was the second-last witness on the second day. “Lazlo is a great guy to spend a day with on the yacht,” said the handsome actor. “As a matter of fact, he can hoist the mainsail as fast as Flynn can. The big difference though is that even Flynn’s hot air couldn’t power a ship like Delorean’s could.”

Lazlo was five years old when his mother died.

Marta, or Mariessa as her father called her, had been a delicate child and remained frail beyond her years. Born with weak bones, she was raised in a shielded environment and treated as “special” by her parents. Despite her infirmity, his father, Daniel, fell in love with her at first sight at the community church service in their home village in Italy.

They married six weeks later and had their first child when she was nineteen. Lazlo was loved by his family, but, because of her condition, Marta was told not to have any more children. Reluctantly, the couple agreed. They moved to America for better opportunities, and settled in the Los Angeles area, where his father got a job as an extra in the fledgling film industry to provide for his wife and child.

One Tuesday afternoon, Lazlo bounced home from his friend’s place to ask for a drink of water, opened the door, and yelled into the kitchen. “Mama, can I have a drink of . . .”

His mother turned to look at him. Her birth condition had taken its toll, and it was the first time he had seen his mother’s true condition. She froze, wig in hand, and her patchy scalp burnt itself into his memory like a sepia print of the Frankenstein monster.

Brenda Slater was found murdered in her car a week before Christmas. Witnesses reported hearing sounds of a quarrel earlier in the evening.

The Hollywood tabloids jumped all over the death of Slater and sensationalized her passing, but the Hollywood Police Department was more than interested, and Sgt. Braham paid another visit to RKO studio boss David O. Selznick.

“Well, hello . . .” offered Selznick, forgetting the police officer’s name.

“Braham, sir. Sgt. Braham. Here to ask you some questions about the Slater girl,” the tall police officer replied.

Selznick offered him a seat and a drink.

“Thank you,” said Braham, taking a sip. “Well, what can you tell me about Slater? Did she have any fights or any enemies? Her murder seems so random.”

The movie mogul sat behind his desk and smoked a Cuban, blowing smoke rings in the air. He pondered the question. “Well, she came to us from MGM a couple of years back,” said Selznick. “Very accomplished professional, but she had a tendency to start scraps with our marquee stars. She got along with Wayne, Cooper, Dix, and Grant but got into a quarrel with Delorean here and Gable at MGM after some quality time together.”

Braham’s eyebrows lifted in interest. “You mean she and Delorean were . . .”

Selznick coughed. “Just friends, but they parted differently.”

Day three of the Delorean trial was a tabloid writer’s dream.

Not since the Academy Awards had Tinseltown royalty gravitated so strongly toward a public gathering. Photographers crawled the hallways and galleries of the courtroom with cameras ready to capture their favorite actor or actress in the event they were called to the witness stand.

Mary Astor was one of those.

“I am not one to speak ill of my coworkers,” said the dark-haired beauty on the witness stand. “While on camera in Sin Ship, he was a gentleman. Off camera, he was not. I understand vanity, but he made Cleopatra look like a campground queen.”

Others echoed the same sentiments.

“Well,” said a young starlet on the witness stand, “I don’t think anyone thought of Lazlo the same after he was ‘escorted’ off the studio for his rendezvous with Slater. Actually, I don’t think he really was the same after that. He was more irrational than before.”

The starlet looked over at Delorean with dreamy eyes, then turned back to the jury. “You know, he’s sure easy on the eyes, but hard on a lady,” said the girl. “Kind of like a loose cannon. I was in a film with him once, The Lady in ’35, and once was enough for me. But, boy, what a love scene.”

Director Marion Cooper was called to the stand and was sworn in. Pason paced the space in front of the director briefly, then started her questioning.

“You, Mr. Cooper, are a close friend of Mr. Delorean’s?” asked Pason.

Cooper nodded. “Yes, ma’am, I am. We have known each other since he started his career in Hollywood. In fact, he has been in several of my films with RKO. King Kong was his most famous film with me.”

“What has his behavior been like during your friendship with him?” asked Pason. “In particular, what has he been like over the last four years since his ‘incident’ and the beginning of the murders he allegedly committed?”

The jury murmured among themselves.

“Leading question, your honor, assumes guilt of client,” offered Bates to the judge.

The judge looked over at Bates, then over to Pason. “Please rephrase the question, Ms. Pason,” said the judge.

Throughout the courtroom, the press scribbled, and the courtroom artist, Paul S. Powers, captured the scene for the dailies.

“How has Mr. Delorean reacted to the murders, Mr. Cooper?” asked Pason.

Cooper leaned forward in the witness stand. “He was devastated as you would expect him to be. She was his wife. With her death, he has taken time away from the spotlight to mourn. He was also very concerned he was being wrongly accused and that his career would take a hit it could never recover from.”

Pason walked over to the evidence table and reached for an item. Lifting it up, the lawyer showed a knife with complex engraving on the hilt and an Asian angle to the blade. She turned to the director.

“Is this knife familiar to you, sir?” asked the lawyer slowly, turning the knife in her hands.

Cooper looked closely at the blade. “We used one like this in our production of Comanche Stallion. Delorean’s character, Dobe, used it. There are quite a few on the studio lot. There could be five others, or none. Props go missing all the time.”

Pason questioned the director further. “What were his knife skills like in the film?” asked the lawyer as Cooper pursed his lips.

“Very good, like he had handled knives all of his life,” said Cooper.

Pason asked one final question. “Having known the defendant for many years now, do you feel he is he capable of cold-blooded murder?”

Cooper looked over at his friend, and back over to the jury, then back to the lawyer.

“On film? Convincingly. Offscreen, I can’t say yes or no for sure,” said Cooper. “I really can’t.”

The discovery of the body of Delila Delorean made national news.

She was found in the kind of scene that Hollywood special effects people love: a pool of blood, a room in disarray and a semi-nude victim with stab wounds. The media jumped into the fray, publishing pictures of Delila on the front page under sensational headlines. HOLLYWOOD STAR FOUND DEAD IN HOME . . . HUSBAND SUSPECTED . . .

Detective Braham was first on scene with his crack homicide squad. He was getting used to dealing with Delorean, and it was rapidly becoming old.

“Detective,” said one of the police officers on duty. “We have Delorean in the living room. He’s expecting you.”

Braham looked around the mirrored bedroom. Antique furniture adorned the corners, and mirrors were sandwiched between mahogany wood panels. A painted fresco inspired by the masters completed the decor. It was the body of Delila that was the centre of attention, not the decor.

“Death be not proud,” he murmured softly as he kneeled beside the bed and looked closely at the wound, then around the room once more from his haunches.

His lieutenant looked over at him. “Shakespeare?”

Braham shook his head. “No, John Donne. Less cheery, like this scene.”

The tall detective gazed around the room, stopping to the left of the bed. He stood up and examined the cracked mirror. Around the room, small cracks shattered the illusion of integrity of the mirrors.

“Sorry for your loss, Delorean,” said Braham, entering the living room, where a distraught Delorean sat on the Italian leather couch. “It must be a shock to find your wife this way, killed in your own bedroom.”

The actor looked up with tears in his eyes. “I was playing tennis with Fairbanks and, for a change, I won,” he said. “I came home and called for her. She didn’t answer. I found her in the bedroom. Dead.”

Braham listened carefully. “Can you give us Fairbanks’s phone number?” asked the detective.

The actor nodded to his butler, Alfred, who returned with the number.

“Thank you, sir,” replied Braham. “Were you and your wife fighting today or yesterday?”

Delorean nodded slightly. “A little, she had come back from the hairdresser. She said she looked in the mirror and didn’t like the way she looked, her eyes didn’t look so bright. She wanted to go to the hairdresser again, to have them redo her makeup,” said Lazlo. “I told her not to go, that it would be fine tomorrow. She didn’t listen. She went back, I found Fairbanks, we played tennis.”

Braham nodded and squinted toward the sun coming through the living room window. “We all have those days, Lazlo,” commented the detective.

Lazlo’s face twisted slightly. “That’s what hair and makeup is for!” he said, raising his voice, looking into the face of the detective with a hint of rage in his eyes. “Hair and makeup!”

The final day of the trial had arrived and, with the mounting media circus, anticipation was high for red carpet appearances. No one disappointed as cameras flashed, and once again Tinseltown shone in the most dire circumstances.

Finally, it was time for Lazlo to take the stand, and he walked the path to justice like it was a catwalk, smiling at the ladies in the audience and catching the glances of his former costars and witnesses. The actor was sworn in and took his place in the dais of truth. Bates had the first opportunity to question him.

“Lazlo Delorean, are you guilty of the murders of Delila Delorean, Brenda Slater, Lyle Davies, and Miss Penny?” asked Gavin Bates.

Delorean calmly replied, “I am not.”

“In fact,” said Bates turning to the jury, “my client can explain his presence elsewhere when the murders occurred. In each case . . .”

Soon, it was Pason’s turn.

“Sir, you are very well known for your hair and romantic appeal,” said Pason, walking in front of the podium. “In fact, your image adorns hundreds of movie posters and magazine covers. For evidence, I present this one.”

Pason hands a copy of Movie Love Monthly, the January 1935 issue, with Delorean holding an unnamed model in his arms mid-kiss. Lazlo smiled.

“Ah, one of the good ones,” he commented.

Pason’s face showed confusion. “Good ones?”

“Yes, the photo shoot had good light, and the breeze was just right for my hair,” he replied. “The actress was good, but . . .”

The actor brushed his hand over his hair, to straighten it out.

“What was the name of the actress you posed with?” asked Pason.

“I cannot remember,” he replied, shaking his head. “They all blend together after a while.”

Pason looked at the star, then over to the gallery where Mary Astor sat fixated on the star trial.

“Who is that woman over there?” she asked.

Lazlo looked over and smiled. “Mary Astor.”

“So she was special to you then,” suggested the lawyer.

Lazlo nodded while Astor returned the smile with a glare. “Yes.”

The lawyer looked up to see the actress leave, prompting murmurs from the audience. “And now?” asked Pason.

Lazlo searched the room and looked at the lawyer. “A nice prop,” said Delorean. “Interchangeable with any pretty face.”

Pason looked at the crowd, and spoke to her cocounsel for a moment, only to return to the questioning area.

“Lazlo, I saw you in Comanche Stallion. Loved the film, actually, but I thought your knife work was sloppy, not real,” she said, then continued. “In fact, your last three films, including Panacea, have been good, except for your hair. It looks like a half-drunk hairdresser gelled it and combed it once.”

Bates called for a dismissal of the comment. He was denied.

“In Panacea, your costar, Vivien Leigh, outshone you, hair included,” continued the lawyer. “I bring one review in that states, and I quote, ‘Lazlo has lost his edge, and his hair is waning. We are not a fan.’”

By now, Delorean was fidgeting in his seat and had started to wring his hands. He moved his hands across his hair to smooth it.

“How is your hair these days, Lazlo?” asked Pason. “Rumor has it you may soon be a fallen star. In fact, perhaps you are so vain that, as Astor put it, you ‘make Cleopatra look like a campground queen.’ You also have a temper you cannot control.”

Lazlo started to fidget uncontrollably.

“We have one more piece of evidence, taken from your home, Lazlo. One that you could not hide, despite your best efforts,” said Pason presenting a bottle of hair growth tonic. “We found it mislabeled, in your wife’s effects. In fact, we double-checked the inventory of the other murder scenes and, in each case, a bottle of tonic was in each room. In fact, we believe you killed each of the victims because they were jealous of your hair . . .”

Lazlo stood up.

“All lies . . . all lies!” exclaimed Delorean. “I killed them because they were going to reveal my secret!”

The audience gasped as Lazlo reached out and grabbed the lawyer by the throat. The police in the room quickly responded, and the actor was handcuffed.

After a five-minute recess, the judge called the trial back to order and the jury was sent out to deliberate. They returned with a guilty verdict on all four counts of first-degree murder.

Delorean hung his head low while the verdict sunk in. He looked at the jury that convicted him. He looked at the crowd that once adored him. He looked at the judge, then back to the media who were at the back of the room eating up every word and picture he gave them, even in defeat.

“I suppose you want to know why I killed them,” screamed the murderer. “You see . . . it all started when they couldn’t keep a secret. Nora, Penny, Lyle ‘I’m going to tell everyone’ Davies, Brenda ‘Blackmail’ Slater, and, finally, Delila ‘You’re so vain’ Delorean, my late, quiet wife . . . Everything was fine until they tried to make me say it!”

Delorean was led away to prison still ranting. “I kiss better than Silver!”

Five days later, officials found Lazlo Delorean in his cell, dead by his own hand. Hollywood mourned the passing of a bright star. In accordance with his last wishes, his tombstone bore a simple inscription: Lazlo Delorean, 1900–1937.

In the official report released one week after his death, prison officials reported hearing the actor crying himself to sleep in his cell and murmuring, “I think I’m going bald. I think I’m going bald.”