«Uh, right.» I made an effort to drag the interview back on course. «So Eva wasn't afraid of anyone or –«
«Eva wasn't afraid of anything,» she interrupted. «Although she was superstitious. She believed all that horseshit Roman used to shovel her way. It wasn't just an affectation. Tarot cards, astrology, pick-up sticks, who the hell knows what all.»
«But she didn't believe him that night? She went to the party at the Garden of Allah after he warned her not to.»
«She probably figured Roman was jealous. You've probably run across the type in your line of work.» «Roman's type?»
«Hollywood has more than its share of jealous queens – of both sexes.» She winked at me. «I used to tell Eva I thought Roman believed he controlled the stars instead of just reading 'em. Took it very personally when anyone didn't hang on his every prediction.» Gloria shrugged. «Prediction or not, Evie wanted to see Stephen that night.» «Stephen Ball?»
Gloria nodded and looked down at the dog she was patting. «They were both starring in a picture. Desire in the Dust or something. It was an adventure picture. Eva played Steve's love interest.»
«Danger in the Dunes,» I said. «But they'd been engaged, right? Stephen Ball and Eva? For a brief time before she met Tony Fumagalli.» «Yep, but that was all over. On Stephen's part anyway.»
I tried to read her expression. «So it wasn't over for Eva? Was that why she broke off her engagement to Fumagalli?»
«Like I said, baby, it was a long time ago.» She studied me. «Tim North. Do your girlfriends call you Timmy? You're a very nice looking boy, Timmy. You've got striking coloring. Blond hair and brown eyes.» She leaned closer and I automatically straightened up like you do when a wasp is trying to land on your nose. «But they're not brown, are they? More what we used to call whiskey-colored. Very nice.» She winked. «Very nice.» I got out, «Uh…Ms. Rayner, who do you think killed Eva?» She replied instantly, «Will Burack. There was never a question in my mind.» * * * * *
Gloria pressed me to stay for lunch, but I escaped on the – true – grounds that I had an appointment at the UCLA Library Department of Special Collections.
As it was, by the time I caught the bus for Westwood I was starting to feel tired and a little let down, enough so that I considered skipping UCLA and just heading home. There
wasn't any reason for it. The interview had gone fine, although it was obvious to me from Gloria's body language and diversionary tactics that she wasn't being candid about a number of things. That was to be expected. Maybe I wasn't asking the right questions. Maybe I wasn't aggressive enough. Or maybe she just needed to get a little more familiar with me – not that she wasn't plenty familiar.
I'd had a bad night, and that always tended to color the next day. The bad night wasn't a surprise considering the physical and emotional trauma of the day, and there wasn't any point giving in to it. I'd had bad nights before – one in particular, which reminded me of Jack. The very last person I needed to be thinking of.
In my experience, when a guy tells you he doesn't want a serious relationship, he really means he doesn't want a serious relationship with you. If Mr. Right came along, he'd get serious fast enough. In a way Jack had done me a favor, although my currently fragile ego could have done without his sudden decision to come clean. I already knew Jack didn't want to pursue a relationship, and I knew why. And once upon a time I'd probably have felt the same way.
So I didn't blame him, but I didn't want to be friends with him, either. In fact, I'd be happy never to run into him again. And I was going to do my best to see that I didn't run into him again, which probably wouldn't be hard because I was pretty sure Jack felt the same.
The bus roared along its air-conditioned way, and I popped the gold stud I'd removed for my interview with Gloria back in my ear, put my head back and closed my eyes. I thought about what I'd learned from Gloria. I kept remembering the Life magazine layout of that fateful party. Glossy black and white photos of Hollywood Babylon. Somehow Hollywood parties just never seemed as glamorous or exclusive as they did back in the '40s and '50s. Maybe it was because of the old star system. Those old actors and actresses had a mystique that didn't seem to exist anymore. It wasn't all good, of course. Part of the price of
being packaged for public consumption meant sacrificing a lot of freedom both personally and professionally.
About an hour later, I sat in the hushed Ahmanson-Murphy Reading Room carefully turning the page of the September 1957 issue of Modern Screen magazine. The cover featured an artwork portrait of Eva Aldrich eating an apple. The issue had come out the month of Eva's death, and it had been a huge seller. The article itself was not wildly informative: one of those planted publicity pieces where Eva chatted girlishly about her latest film, Danger in the Dunes, and her dreamy upcoming wedding to local businessman Tony Fumagalli.
Besides the fact that Eva mentioned her dashing costar Stephen Ball six times during the single-page interview, there didn't seem to be any indication that her romance with Fumagalli was on the rocks. Apparently no one – including Fumagalli – had seen it coming.
He hadn't been the only one, I thought, studying the sexy little grin of Eva's pinup portrait. * * * * *
It was late by the time the bus let me off. I was dead tired and the thought of walking all the way around from Central Avenue was about as enticing as a picnic in Death Valley. I thought of Jack's warning about not using the apartment parking lot as a shortcut, and then I thought to hell with Jack, and turned off the narrow alley that ran behind the neighboring complex.
It wasn't really an alley, just a pathway of dirt and rocks and weeds stretching behind the buildings with a tall cinder block wall on one side shielding the apartments from the adjacent freeway.
Oleander bushes lined the freeway side of the wall, dead leaves and withered blossoms scattering the pathway as I strode along the length of two apartment complexes. At the end
of the walk was a shorter cinder block wall. There were two wooden crates stacked against the wall providing makeshift steps. I climbed onto the crates and hauled myself up, balancing precariously on top of the wall as I looked down into the parking lot of my own apartment structure.
Jack, wearing jeans, boots, and a black blazer, was getting out of his Jeep. At the sound of my scrabbling ascent, he jerked around and stared. One leg over the wall, I paused. Our gazes fastened across the roofs of cars. Busted. «Nice to see you take my advice seriously,» he said.
«I hang on your every word,» I returned, and I jumped down, landing with the lightness of a lot of practice beside a blue Mustang on wheel blocks.
I'm not sure why I was playing the smart-ass; I could tell by the way his face tightened that it wasn't going to win points. But then, I didn't want to win points with Jack anymore, and that allowed for a certain freedom. Actually, it allowed for a lot of freedom considering how very careful I'd been the couple of times we'd gone out. It had been like auditioning for a part or interviewing for a job you knew you weren't qualified for. I'd been on my best behavior every second. Not giving a damn was surprisingly liberating.
I brushed the seat of my charcoal trousers, feeling where the rough surface of the wall had snagged the material. Jack continued to eye me. I walked toward the gate, passing close enough by him that I could see his five o'clock shadow. «The fact is,» he said suddenly, «I wanted to talk to you.»