TARNISHED IDOLS
A Silver Screen Murder Mystery
By
Susan Schoeffield
Published by Susan Schoeffield at Smashwords
copyright 2010 Susan Schoeffield
ISBN: 978-1-4523-8744-4
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Dedication
To Barbara Moloney,
who, unknowingly, made me feel guilty everyday for not completing it.
To Lynda deGreif,
who, knowingly, gave me everything I needed to get it done.
And
To Simon, Pogo, Pawley & Tucker,
Who put up with being occasionally ignored and, sometimes, being fed a little late.
CHAPTER ONE – The Past
Scandals. The studios dreaded them, the fans devoured them. As for Jennifer Deane, the subject of a steady stream of rumor and innuendo, the scandals were now devouring her.
For nearly all of her fifteen-year professional life, Jennifer skated the thin ice between one sordid headline and another. Always, the gossipmongers, caring only for the story and never for the source, followed their target in hot pursuit.
The ice beneath her began to crack. Jennifer knew she would soon be plunging to the unfathomable depths of a broken career. And to Jennifer, that amounted to a broken life.
There is a fine line between perception and reality. In the state of paranoia, those lines are even more indistinguishable. To say that Jennifer Deane was paranoid was, perhaps, not saying nearly enough. Her life and her career were one continuous drama played out on the world stage. That world adored her in the beginning and, truthfully, continued to adore her in spite of itself.
It was true that the career she had worked on so feverishly appeared to be in shambles. The film going public, a hypocritical mass of humanity that was secretly titillated by the excess of her lifestyle, was now openly vehement in its outrage. A legion of moviegoers was threatening to boycott any film produced by Pinnacle Pictures, the home of every film Jennifer ever made. The title of her latest film lent itself quite easily to the poisoned pens of her most severe critics. “In this instance, All That Glitters is definitely not gold!” The actress whose talents were once considered brilliant and limitless was now unmarketable and far too risky for a studio that once survived bankruptcy by her presence alone.
But even the best filmmakers made bad films once in a while. And scandals alone did not kill a career. Where fact and fiction intertwined was in the studio’s response to her fall from grace. Perhaps the truth would never be completely known or understood.
What mattered at this moment was how Jennifer perceived her demise. To her, loyalty was never a factor when potential profits were on the line, and she saw the studio acquiescing to public demand. The Sex Goddess had to go. In response to the public outcry, the studio brass began the heartless, calculated destruction of one of its own.
Bound by a contract giving her little or no control, Jennifer appeared in a string of less than forgettable films. Pinnacle Pictures, her protector and haven of safety, was now the enemy forcing her out of an industry she had glorified in as the ultimate sexual fantasy. The future was clearly defined and Jennifer, herself, acquiesced. Each day brought new revelations, new turmoil. Her spirit of fierce pride and determination was broken, her dreams and aspirations shattered, her strength to fight was gone.
Maintaining her sense of professionalism, she obediently followed the studio’s command. Without protest, she allowed it to extinguish the flame that had once been Jennifer Deane.
As her value in the movie market dropped, so did her bank account. Her beloved mansion, her palace of success, high atop Beverly Hills, was no longer within her financial means. As she vacated its premises, most of her prized possessions were left behind.
She found herself now in a much smaller house. Gone were the lush trees, manicured lawns and well-ordered gardens. Missing from view were the tennis courts and swimming pool. The only sights in this neighborhood of Hollywood disgrace were the nondescript houses of other tarnished idols, has-beens whose names could not be remembered until death restored them, if only briefly, to the limelight of glory and fame.
Here, in what she considered her palace of failure, Jennifer wandered aimlessly from one tiny room to another. She stumbled over cartons containing the few, meager belongings that remained. In her hand, she carried a bottle of wine, her all-consuming passion and only friend. She tripped over an unseen object and collapsed on a nearby sofa littered with other bottles long ago emptied. Her mind was ravaged not so much from the alcohol as from the confusion of her thoughts.
The story would break tomorrow. She knew that and, although she thought she was ready, deep inside she wasn’t. It could be the end of everything she had left. She doubted very much if Jennifer Deane could once more rise to the challenge and take control of an ugly situation. Times had changed and she believed there were few to care about her fate, including, at the moment, herself.
The cold steel pressed against her temple.
“Funny,” she thought to herself, “I don’t remember finding a gun in all this mess.”
Nor did she remember picking it up. Had she lived long enough, she would not have remembered pulling the trigger.
CHAPTER TWO – The Present
In one week, Peter Gregory would be fifty years old. The number itself didn’t bother him. At least that’s what he told his friends. He certainly didn’t feel fifty, although he wasn’t exactly sure what fifty was supposed to feel like.
He felt the same confusion when he turned forty and also when he turned thirty. Milestones seemed to always creep up on him and he never seemed prepared for their arrival.
In reality, he could complain very little about the past five decades. He did pretty much what he wanted to do whenever he wanted to do it. A sizeable inheritance had been carefully attended to by a network of financial wizards. Unlimited wealth had made his life much easier.
He tried his hand at law school, but dropped out because, while he liked studying the law and the thought of practicing it, he didn’t care for any of the lawyers he knew and didn’t want to be like them. He gave a few years of his life trying to manage a restaurant, but was forced to admit that he lacked the necessary discipline to run his own business. He spent two years serving his country. Both he and his country were greatly relieved when those two years were over. At one point, some shortsighted friends, in an attempt to give his life some direction, suggested Peter run for public office. Luckily for mankind, that particular plane never got off the ground.
He proved even less successful in the marriage department. Two attempts had quickly run their course when Peter spent more time engaged in intellectual pursuits than in what it took to make a marriage work.
In the classic definition, Peter might have been considered a perfect failure were it not for one, redeeming quality. When at last he settled down and found his niche, he surprised everyone with what he found.
Peter Gregory could write. What he wrote were plays and, for the most part, what he wrote was very, very good.
His home base was odd for a man of his abilities. He preferred the subtle charms of his home town, Baltimore, to the hectic pace of New York City. Fearful of the high-pressure city, he had no qualms about commuting the distance when his work was in production.
It was an arrangement that served two purposes.
A writer, by the nature of his craft, spends a great deal of time alone. For many like Peter, this isolation breeds an almost neurotic fear of being in the public eye. In the midst of all his success, he could easily retreat to his private sanctuary where he could quietly revel in triumph yet be far removed from the spotlight’s demanding crowds.
To the other end, the center of attention was the last place to be when a long-labored on project was an abysmal failure.
Either way, Peter was safe from the ever fickle theatergoer and the always unpredictable critic.
Experience and personal interest formed the foundation for his talent.
His turned an undistinguished stint with the military into the thought provoking and critically acclaimed Banner Wave. As an adoptee, he drew upon both its privilege and pain to create the touching, Tony Award winning Somebody’s Child.
Peter did not let his ongoing love affair with the movies impair the honesty he brought to his latest achievement. His most successful, and most controversial, work to date, An Actor By Blood, was a biting satire on the golden age of the Hollywood establishment and the effects it produced on an unstable, hedonistic thespian. Clearly, the play centered on a bygone era, but there were enough comparisons to present day Hollywood mentality to make the most minor executive squeamish.
Such obvious criticism of that particular industry was not to Peter’s benefit. Not all of his work was for the stage. In fact, some of his best efforts had been written for the screen, both large and small. In a corner of his apartment, on top of a stack of books that had never made its way to the bookcase, was an Emmy he received for a made-for-TV movie, the title of which he could barely remember.
To the powers that be in the cinema capital, Peter Gregory was an enigma. Unquestionably, he was a good writer. He certainly possessed the ability but, in this business, talent alone was not sufficient. His lack of ambition and utter disdain for studio politics made him unpopular in the movie community. In a world that saw publicity as its lifeblood, Peter’s fear of open recognition made him not only unapproachable but, more to the point, undesirable.
An eccentric to his followers, disorganized to his friends, an oddball to the world at large. These were the outward traits that best summarized the man. But in spite of this, Peter’s inward self and his intrinsic creative abilities became the object of one man’s crusade.
For nearly every executive in Hollywood, putting Peter Gregory on the payroll was out of the question. A screenplay here and there, delivered long distance with no face-to-face interaction, was one thing. A steady diet of his artistic neuroses was quite another.
Except in the eyes of Zachary Max.
Celluloid was more a part of his physical make up than tissue and bone. His father, Jacob Max, had been a youthful pioneer in the new art form and later became the legendary mogul at the head of Pinnacle Pictures, the most glamorous and successful of the dream factories. He instilled in his son a passion for film equal only to his own.
Zachary had been there in the glory days and he had seen the system die. He watched helplessly as the new era of filmmaking consumed the old. And he watched in pain at the destruction of the giant his father had been.
The Hollywood Peter had written about was one of immense power.
Since the strength of the medium had first been unleashed, a new sovereignty had been established. Those at the helm of this unwieldy vessel had learned early how to best exercise their authority. Throughout the entire history of the movies, those in control knew what they wanted and who or what needed to be removed in order to achieve it.
This merciless perspective was necessary. Even in its infancy, the movie industry provoked intense competition. To stay one step ahead of a rival very often meant the difference between life and death.
Although generations had passed since the motion picture’s inception, and the star studded days of the movie moguls had long ago vanished, the same brutal manipulations of the Hollywood machine pressed onward. The onslaught of television and the advent of home video intensified the ruthless behavior in the quest for continued survival.
An apprentice under his father’s supervision, Zachary’s name had been attached to some of the finest movies ever made. Through the years, he earned his own reputation as a giant. He was a man to reckon with in the modern movie world but his early exposure to the all powerful studio traditions defined his approach to movie making. In his current role as Production Head of Century Cinema, the reorganized remains of his father’s Pinnacle Pictures, Zachary ruled with an iron hand. At every other studio in town, the studio system was long ago dead and buried. At Century, not only did it linger, it thrived.
Therefore, the teaming of Zachary Max and Peter Gregory was a questionable enterprise. Indeed, most of Zachary’s colleagues thought the idea was ludicrous. His subordinates, while openly supporting his latest brainstorm, privately thought the old man was unhinged.
But Zachary was not crazy. He sat spellbound at the Los Angeles premier of An Actor By Blood. If a play of such depth and perception could be written by someone so far removed from the industry, imagine what could be written from an intimate knowledge.
Getting Peter Gregory to accept a long term assignment would be difficult. Persuading him to move to a city he would hate might be impossible. As with any other potential employee, Zachary launched a full scale investigation. In his well scrutinized research of his intended prey, Zachary found the icing to frost his cake.
Peter Gregory was a man with a lifelong obsession. His apartment was crammed with books, magazines, movies, posters and assorted paraphernalia of and about an actress decades dead. He was completely and uncontrollably obsessed with a one time, worldwide, sexual fantasy.
The Sex Goddess. His father’s last, great discovery and the crowning achievement of his legendary career. How ironic that the writer chosen by Zachary to bring to life his pet project should have an unnatural fixation on the subject of that project. Jennifer Deane.
CHAPTER THREE
Peter hoped the conversation was not going well.
“Gee, Mr. Max, I don’t know,” Peter said in his best imitation of a country bumpkin. “See, I really don’t think I’m the guy you’re looking for.”
Zachary Max was the shrewdest of businessmen. He knew very well this was no backwoods farm boy. Peter was passionate, articulate and a borderline genius. It was perhaps this genius which gave him the right to be crazy. But crazy or not, his obsessive nature made his quality of craftsmanship ideal for Zachary’s purpose.
With the mere mention of Jennifer Deane, Peter would have been instantly hooked. Definitely, the quickest way to catch his fish. But Zachary wanted a more effective capture. He wanted Peter Gregory heart, mind and soul. Toward that end, a long, drawn out campaign was in order.
After an endless stream of pleasantries where saying much was saying little, Zachary ever so slightly took control of the conversation.
At first, they discussed writing in the vaguest possible terms, almost as a curiosity. Then Zachary focused more clearly on Peter’s own work and the success it enjoyed. As the talk became more technical, Zachary’s appreciation intensified until Peter, unintentionally, was openly courting the praise of this new admirer.
The change in Peter’s demeanor was not lost on the man in Hollywood. Zachary sat back in his high-backed chair, lit a cigar and relaxed. Phase One of “Operation: Hoodwink” was successful. Very carefully, he slid into Phase Two.
“I get so enthused by good writers talking so positively about their craft. Out here, that’s a rarity. Too many of them take their gift for granted, if they have a gift at all. Which brings me back to why I called you.”
“It was something about a project of yours,” Peter interrupted, far removed from his natural state of fear and suspicion, “but you never really said what the project was about.”
“Well, what I have in mind is far too complicated to discuss on the phone, but I sure don’t expect you to make the long trip out here.” Properly placed pause. “Tell you what,” Zachary said, making it sound like an idea that just popped into his head. “I have a meeting in New York next week with our East Coast people. Why don’t I swing by Baltimore first? We could talk about it at length over dinner. My treat, of course.”
Peter’s jaw dropped below his lap. What have you done? he thought to himself. Suddenly, he was trapped without a clue how it happened. Something inside let his defenses down and he found himself agreeing to a meeting he was very much against. Still, even the most successful like a free meal and the least egotistical like being pampered.
Clutching the receiver with his chin so he could dry his sweating palms, Peter conveyed his agreement and his thanks.
After settling on a day, time and restaurant, Zachary hung up the phone and looked at the clock. One hour and seventeen minutes. This was one long distance call that was worth every penny.
********************
The day of the meeting, Peter walked the streets of Baltimore in a neurotic frenzy. He wandered along the harbor, staring long and hard at the sights around him. It was as though he believed this Hollywood producer would spirit him away to the land of celluloid dreams. He stopped at a harbor side bar to calm his frazzled nerves with a beer or two.
Peter was hoping to go to dinner that night and walk away unscathed. But a gnawing feeling he couldn’t quite shake ate away at him. Somewhere deep inside, he knew that after tonight his life would never be the same.
Yet despite his premonition of impending doom, Peter didn’t run. Like an overly dramatic character in one of his plays, he had resigned himself to accept his fate. He looked at his watch and, after finishing off a third calming draft, made his way to the appointed place.
********************
The area, Little Italy, and the restaurant, Antonio’s, had been carefully suggested by Peter. A frequent visitor, he was comfortable here and, always of major importance, he felt safe. It was here Peter chose to dine with theatrical bigwigs intent on securing his services. The proprietor of the establishment, Antonio himself, reveled in the celebrity atmosphere Peter created. The word was out that, no matter how little notice, a table was always available for Mr. Gregory.
Uncharacteristically, Peter arrived with an air of confidence, no doubt enhanced by the three beers. Combining those beverages with the familiar surroundings and a home turf advantage relieved any remaining trepidation. He met Zachary Max in the lounge and they shook hands in the guarded, friendly manner of two candidates before a debate. Antonio, all smiles and professional courtesy, led them to the isolated room in the back, usually reserved for Peter and his guests.
The rules were silently understood. No business would be discussed until a suitable wine had been chosen and the menu appropriately perused. The conversation was general in nature (“How was your flight?”, “Charming little restaurant”, and the obligatory “Wonderful weather.”) After the wine had been dutifully tasted and the waiter had taken their order, the rules changed. Zachary Max was ready to talk business and the confident Peter Gregory withdrew into caution.
“I certainly appreciate you giving me your time,” Zachary began. “I know a writer of your caliber must be overburdened with projects.”
Peter smiled. His projects were less of a burden than this meeting could prove to be.
“No, problem, Mr. Max …”
“Zachary. Please.”
“Zachary,” Peter spoke softly, eyes glued to the table.
This type of familiarity was exactly what Peter hoped to avoid. What unnatural forces were destroying his defenses? Whatever they were, they were doing a good job.
“Zachary,” he continued, “It’s no secret in the industry that I’m a bit of a recluse when it comes to my writing. That’s an annoying nuisance to those I work for. Everyone who has ever hired me knows I work best independently. I write, they read, that’s it.”
“And the thought of working at such close quarters with a producer like me terrifies you?”
“Yes, quite frankly, it does. A lot. See, the way I work and where I work puts the power of artistic control firmly in my hands. In New York or Los Angeles, the producers are in charge. I’m not willing to sacrifice that kind of creative freedom.”
Peter could feel the perspiration rolling down his back. This was quite an oration for one of such a retiring nature. Zachary realized this and knew the best way to proceed.
“Let me say this,” he began with fatherly concern. “I appreciate what you’ve said and I respect your need for creative control. In fact, I more than respect it. I require it. For what I want to do, for reasons that will become obvious later, I can only be involved on a peripheral basis.”
“And what exactly do you want to do?”
“I want to make a movie about Jennifer Deane.”
Ace in the hole. A simple statement that effectively produced the desired result … and then some.
Zachary got in person what he would never have gotten over the phone. Peter’s eyes lit up and his passive, detached expression became vibrantly alive. His innermost defenses were shattered and replaced by an enthusiasm he had trouble controlling. Calm, he told himself. Stay calm. It was a pointless endeavor.
“A biography of Jennifer Deane?”
“Well, not a standard biography, no.” Zachary reached for a cigar. Apparently, the producer was unfazed by the City’s No Smoking policy. For that matter, neither was Antonio or any of the other restaurant personnel. In this room, reserved only for the most important movers and shakers, anything went. Regardless, Zachary politely asked Peter for permission to smoke (as if at this point, Peter would care), and took his time in the lighting process. The longer it took, the more Peter stretched across the table. Zachary thought it best to continue before Peter fell into his lap.
“Your basic Hollywood biography goes like this: so and so was born; so and so grew up; wanted to be an actor; became an actor; stardom destroyed him; he died. Not very exciting stuff. Like I said standard issue. If we’re lucky, the public turns out in the hundreds and a once, great idea becomes a late night movie in some God-forsaken part of the Midwest.”
“That couldn’t possibly happen to a movie about Jennifer Deane.”
“Have you ever seen the so-called Deane biography, Drowned by Fame?” Peter nodded. “Piece of crap, Peter. Total piece of crap. Conceived by a local, written by a local, and produced by a local. See, those guys out there are surrounded by actors on a daily basis. Stardom holds no awe for them. It’s a case of business as usual. They see stars as necessary evils. A commodity they need to stay employed. That’s why I need to go outside of the community. I need someone removed from that natural bias. Of course, it doesn’t hurt to find someone who’s also a devoted fan.”
At that, Zachary’s eyes twinkled. Peter caught the full extent of what Zachary was saying.
“I see you’ve done your homework. Yes, I’m a huge fan of Miss Deane. Have been for most of my life. And that’s exactly the reason why I couldn’t be part of a glitzy movie about her. Anybody could do that. There’s plenty of material to review. I should know. I own most of it.”
“Precisely, Peter. That kind of film, anyone can make. But what I want are things people don’t know. Not the tabloid headlines, but what lies beneath. I guess what I want is the truth. All of it.”
“The truth,” Peter paused in thought. “You mean about how she died? Lot of speculation there. Many people don’t think she killed herself.”
Zachary interrupted. “Not many, but enough. Problem is anyone who knows anything won’t talk. Not even after all these years.”
“After all these years, who would care?”
Peter stared at the veal parmesan placed before him. He was being given a chance to become actively involved, if only after the fact, in the life of Jennifer Deane. His cautions and fears gave way to unbridled zeal.
“And you say you won’t be involved in the writing end of this?”
“How can I? The death of Jennifer Deane was the last major earthquake under my father’s studio. The questionable suicide and the scandalous trail it followed led to his ultimate ruin. I can’t even produce the picture under my own name. If I did, the critics would jump to say it was created under prejudicial influence. And in all probability, the label would fit.”
“And I would have complete control over the script?”
“The story would be yours from start to finish. To get the movie I want, my involvement must be almost nonexistent. So what do you say? Are you up for the challenge?”
Peter took a long sip of wine, accepted a proffered cigar and smiled.
“Well, Mr. Max. Zachary. Looks like you’ve got the right guy after all.”
CHAPTER FOUR – The Past
They came from across the country and around the world. They came from the splendor of Beverly Hills and the poverty of Watts. They were colleagues and competitors, admirers and detractors. Some were genuinely grieving, others merely curious. Although the reasons for their presence were as varied as their sizes and shapes, one common thread held them together. The thread was Jennifer Deane.
In her final, confused moments, she may have believed herself forgotten, but this day proved her wrong. This day, the world could talk of nothing else. No other news existed. This was the day of her funeral.
And yet, the entire hullabaloo this funeral produced was almost anticlimactic. The discovery of her body had been a full scale media event. It had broken through the news wires faster than any story before it. The police and paramedics arrived only slightly ahead of the well informed reporters (a curiosity no one seemed to question). And, once again, Jennifer Deane was headline news.
Her death, in fact, had managed to undo all the damage wrought by her final days. In an instant, Jennifer was a sympathetic character. Hers was a pitiable tragedy. The doomed starlet suffered her fate at the hands of Hollywood excess. Her professional demise would have cast her into obscurity. Her death guaranteed her star an eternal flame.
For some, the funeral was just another Hollywood illusion. Those who sought her destruction for their own salvation were, today, at their hypocritical best. Here, with their masks of respect firmly in place, they joined the throng of mourners and dutifully filed by the open casket.
The chapel at Gardens of Peace was well equipped to handle large gatherings. The movie world’s best and brightest had been buried from here, always with a sizeable crowd in attendance. But no one, in either recent or distant memory, could recall anything like this.
The sanctuary overflowed with flowers, everything from mammoth arrangements to a single rose. So deeply packed were these floral tributes that mourners were in danger of tripping over them as they made their way through the intricate maze surrounding the coffin.
Hours had to be extended on each of the three days she lay there in order to accommodate the multitude.
Then, on the last day of the viewing, traffic in the immediate area came to a halt as drivers took any piece of empty asphalt for a parking space.
Hymns at variance with her lifestyle drifted up through the chapel walls and echoed out over the open space of the cemetery.
The often repeated and impersonal eulogy of the haggard funeral director could not diminish the surge of emotion sweeping through the church. People who came only to be seen were choking on unexpected tears that rolled uncontrollably down their cheeks.
Then the casket lid was closed on the most recognized face in the world. The pallbearers lined up and, with great care and tenderness, delivered their charge to her final home.
The procession wound its way around the narrow lanes which led to a secluded spot overlooking the ocean. There, where willow trees bent over to protect her, Jennifer Deane was finally laid to rest.
CHAPTER FIVE – The Present
Peter traveled the highways in his “too young to be vintage, too old to be valuable”, faded yellow Mustang convertible. Although his decision to go west surprised everyone, no one was surprised by his mode of transportation. It would have been uncharacteristic for Peter Gregory to be anything less than pathologically afraid of flying.
With a fully equipped apartment awaiting him in California, Peter had the luxury of traveling light. A suitcase of casual clothes and one good suit (which he would avoid wearing) was stuffed on the floor next to him. The backseat held boxes containing reference material, representing only a small portion of his Jennifer Deane collection.
His lightness of being did little to reduce the journey’s length. He managed to extend a five day trip into twenty-six by stopping here and there to visit fellow literary eccentrics. The consensus was unanimous. By accepting such a high visibility assignment, Peter made lunacy a new art form.
Undaunted by these skeptics, Peter pressed onward, albeit slowly, to the challenge ahead.
When he finally reached the promise land of Southern California, he had little trouble finding his new home. The Hollywood Palms apartment complex was a luxurious community situated on a slight incline at the foot of Beverly Hills. Here he would have easy access to all of the places he needed, and wanted, to be.
This was not his first trip to the West Coast. On several occasions, business had forced him to reluctantly travel to Hollywood. In each instance, the length of the visit was restricted to the matter at hand. Very often, Peter departed within hours of his arrival.
Now gazing at the expansive view from his balcony, Peter did something his previous journeys to Los Angeles had never allowed him to do. He thought about how he would spend his day.
Ironically, on his first, full morning in Los Angeles, time would be a hindrance to his plans. Peter was scheduled to meet Zachary Max for lunch at the Century Cinema Commissary. The three hours remaining before his appointment could not accommodate all the places he wanted to visit. The mansion in Beverly Hills, the bungalow in Hollywood proper. As for the Pinnacle Pictures archives, a week would not be long enough, much less a few hours.
All of these places were essential to establishing the background for his research. Yet none of them drew him more forcefully than the one which drew him now. Peter knew where he would spend his morning. He would begin at the end.
Clutching an armful of specialty maps and a cup of lukewarm coffee, he got into his car. Having plotted the easiest course, Peter turned on the ignition and, after a few sputters and grinds, pulled out of the parking lot and headed toward Gardens of Peace.
As he drove along the streets lined with palm trees, Peter delved into his mental archives. He remembered everything he’d ever read about the last time she had made this journey. The time of year, the weather. All very much like today. He could picture the hearse and the long line of limousines. He could see the people on the sidewalks silently watching the procession’s progress. He could almost hear the occasional crying, could almost feel the sadness.
He returned to the present with a jolt when he realized he wasn’t paying attention. But the real surprise came when he realized where he was. As if the car was on automatic pilot, the Mustang had arrived at the cemetery gates.
The mind is an unbelievable thing, he thought, stopping for a moment at the entrance. My subconscious self is deeply engrossed in its thoughts while my conscious self is aware enough to find a place it’s never been before. Incredible!
Gardens of Peace was as old as it was large. In days gone by, it was far removed from the tiny film community. Nearly all of the biggest names of the silent movie era were buried here. As Hollywood grew up and expanded around it, however, the cemetery maintained its air of detachment. When the privileged found it no longer fashionable to be buried there, the Gardens opened its gates to all manner of souls.
Peter solemnly took it all in. He slowly drove past both grand monuments and untended plots. He finally reached the end of the cemetery road and there, in the distance, he saw it. The simple tombstone he’d been seeking. He parked the car and, holding a small bouquet of flowers he purchased on the way, walked toward the gravesite.
On his approach, he was struck by how isolated it was. No other graves surrounded Jennifer Deane. In death, she’d been left as lonely as in life. A sudden sadness gripped his heart. When he bent down to place the flowers at her stone, tears welled up in his eyes. He looked up at the willow trees, her only neighbors, standing as proud and as tall as they did fifty years ago. His mind played a series of film clips and newsreels showing a vibrant young woman at the height of her career. The sadness grew inside him and the tears rolled down his cheeks.
Peter had no idea how long he’d been standing there absorbed in his mental movies. He was startled by the sound of a young woman’s voice coming from behind him, no doubt sitting on the wrought iron bench a few feet away. Peter was embarrassed to turn around, afraid the stranger might see the redness in his eyes or the tears on his face.
“It’s very sad, isn’t it?” she asked in a quiet, childlike voice. “So alone.”
Peter tried to figure out how to dry his face without giving himself away. Coming up with no ideas, he decided to remain standing where he was, with his back to the woman.
“Yes, it is. Very lonely.” He fought back the urge to cry again.
The woman continued. “It’s a terrible place to be buried. I mean, it’s a beautiful spot, the most beautiful spot here. It’s just so out of touch from the others. It would be so much nicer over there with the rest of them. Don’t you think so?”
Her voice had a dreamy quality he recognized but couldn’t quite place.
“I agree, yes,” Peter said, “but I guess it’s what she wanted. I suppose it keeps alive her air of mystery.”
The woman laughed. “Untouchable is more like it. There was never any question of mystery. The life of Jennifer Deane was an open book. And for this place, it sure wasn’t my,” she hesitated for a fraction of a second. “I understood the studio picked this place. Put the faded movie star in a faded cemetery. Even at the end, they had to have their one last joke on Jennifer Deane.”
It was the momentary pause that alarmed him. Then came the full and frightening realization. Oh yes, he knew that voice. He’d heard it thousands of times before. Its cadence was her unmistakable trademark.
The early morning sun beat down hard upon him, and driving up from the ocean below, a warm breeze blew across his face. In spite of the heat, Peter was shivering from an unexplained cold which engulfed him from head to foot.
So still did he stand, not only could he hear himself breathe, he could hear himself sweat. And it wasn’t the heat causing perspiration to spill from every pore. It was sheer, abject terror.
Don’t turn around. Don’t turn around, he repeated the mantra over and over, sometimes out loud, sometimes to himself.
Curiosity can be a wicked thing. It’s killed many a cat, the legend goes. Although he knew (or was fairly certain) he wouldn’t die, Peter was so close to passing out he could taste it.
And yet, a force stronger than reason took control of his body. Slowly, he turned around, his steadily increasing heartbeat bursting his eardrums like cannon fire.
He continued to turn until finally he came face to face, eye to eye, with the surrealistic voice.
A cry that could have awakened the dead remained trapped in Peter’s throat. At the very moment he began to scream, his knees buckled, his body collapsed, and his head hit the tombstone of Jennifer Deane.
CHAPTER SIX
Zachary paced up and down the stark hospital corridor. His mind was a jumble of confused thoughts. In the midst of his confusion, he could focus only on the white coldness around him. Sterile walls, sterile ceilings, sterile floors. He wondered whether all this sterility could be contagious, then sighed heavily in gratitude for the children he’d already produced.
A sharp, severe voice brought him back from his mental meanderings. He turned to see the exasperated face of Dr. Mooring glaring at him. He had apparently been calling Zachary for several minutes. Mooring was a no nonsense professional who believed dealing with those Hollywood people was his punishment for undetermined sins.
After a brief, clinical discussion with the doctor, Zachary was allowed to visit the patient. He looked down on the bed at the crumpled figure of Peter Gregory. Peter’s eyes were barely visible beneath the massive bandage covering his head, but he was obviously awake. He became quite agitated when Zachary entered the room. Zachary hurried to the bed and tried to calm Peter down. In the process, he himself became agitated.
“What happened out there? What the hell happened?? Jesus, Peter, I didn’t bring you all the way out here so you could keel over a tombstone! A stone, I might add, belonging to the subject of your screenplay!!”
Peter tried a half hearted smile and said weakly, “Well, it should get you some publicity.”
Wrong comment at the wrong time.
“The worst kind of publicity! Dammit, I want to make a serious movie here, Peter. How serious will I be taken when this gets out? God, I can just see the headlines. LOVESICK LUNATIC COLLAPSES WHILE WORSHIPPING DEAD ACTRESS. Sound crazy, Peter? Well, that’s what everyone will think. They’ll think you’re crazy. And, by association, they’ll think I’m crazy.” He paused as the tirade started to subside. “Hell, maybe I am.”
Peter lay still during this verbal explosion. Before it began, he’d been anxious to tell Zachary exactly what happened. Now, evidently, was not a good time for honesty. If Zachary thought Peter was crazy, he was under no obligation to prove it.
“I fell,” he said simply.
The look on Zachary’s face made it clear that this explanation was not acceptable. It also indicated the matter would not be pursued. Zachary had been in this business long enough to know that the truth was seldom necessary.
In the brief seconds that followed, an uncomfortable tension took root. Peter made the first move to end the silence.
“So what did the doctor say? Will I live?”
Zachary laughed just long enough to ease the strain.
“That depends on how many more trips you make to the cemetery. Actually, you have a nasty gash and a mild concussion. He wants to keep you overnight for observation and suggests about ten days of rest and solitude. I thought maybe you could spend a week or two at my beach house. It’s restful enough and, with me stuck in the city, you’ll have plenty of quiet.”
“I really have a lot to do, Zachary. I’ve got a ton of research ahead of me.”
“So begin at the beach. You’ll only be about a mile away from Casa Deane.”
“Walter Deane’s place?”
“Same. Though I don’t think he lives there anymore, if he lives anywhere. Funny, I can’t remember if he’s dead or not.”
“If not, he must be about a hundred and fifty.”
“Near enough. I know he faded from public view several years after Jennifer died. Rumor has it he went nuts and was put in some kind of asylum, but I’m not sure how true that is. Anyway, being sure is your job.”
“Who takes care of the Casa?”
“I think the sons stay there occasionally, not often and never together. Regardless, the place is fully staffed. I’ve heard it’s almost the same staff of fifty years ago. Real Hollywood relics.”
“Really? Who dusts the butler and the maid?”
“Watch the cynicism, son,” Zachary said with a grin. “A decadent society is only as strong as the faithful servants it pays to keep silent.”
Peter looked thoughtful, or at least as thoughtful as one could look with a head covered in bandages.
“Zachary,” he asked, staring into space, “how did I get here? How did you get here?”
“Well, I understand a woman called for an ambulance …”
“What woman?”
“Huh? I don’t know Peter. Just some woman from the cemetery. I guess she was out there paying her respects to someone when she saw you hit the stone. Why? What difference does it make?”
“But who called you?”
“How the hell should I know? My secretary took the call. I thought it was someone from the hospital. Didn’t you ask them to call me?”
No, I didn’t, thought Peter. But he couldn’t say that out loud.
“Oh, yeah. I guess I did.”
Peter’s face was ashen and his expression blank. No one else had been near the gravesite. He’d been completely alone. Except for … oh, God, that was impossible!
He came back from the pain of his private thoughts to see the worried face of Zachary Max staring at him intently.
“What is it, Peter?” he asked in a whisper. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing, Zachary. Really.” His voice was barely audible. “I’m just tired. I need to get some sleep, that’s all.”
Zachary nodded in agreement and started to leave when he saw Peter’s trembling hand reach for Zachary’s arm. He stood there long enough for his arm to be released and to assure himself that Peter was asleep.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The early morning sun danced across the gently rolling ocean waves. Although the brilliance of its glow caused his eyes to burn and water, Peter continued to stare transfixed by the hypnotic appeal of the scene.
Zachary had been right about this place. Its solitude and peaceful silence had revived his senses. In the few days since his arrival, Peter began to feel whole again and the throbbing in his head steadily decreased.
Yet despite the healing tranquility, the throbbing in his mind would not be stilled. Events at the cemetery could not be simply ignored. She had been there. He had seen her, had spoken with her. For reasons not clearly understood, it was to him she had chosen to reveal her ghostly image. The very thought sent an icy chill throughout his body.
Perhaps the morning air has grown colder, he unconvincingly lied to himself.
Unsteady legs found their way from the balcony back inside. He rubbed his hands together to generate some heat. Having failed, he headed for the kitchen and the coffee pot.
The steaming hot liquid did its work well. As his insides began to defrost, his brain began to clear. He could now focus in a more rational manner on the situation at hand. Taking a quick, pleasantly burning gulp of the coffee, he formulated a plan.
Peter walked into the study and looked at the books lining the shelves. He’d never seen such an extensive collection of Hollywood related materials. Every facet of the industry was covered by this library, no aspect too minor to be overlooked. Exhaustive histories of the medium, technical missives on lighting and sound, in depth exposés on actors, directors and the films themselves.
A determined search yielded reward. He found three separate volumes dedicated to the life and work of Walter A. Deane.
Familiar as he was with Jennifer, he knew little about the players in her life’s drama. Armed with the three biographies of her husband, Peter returned to the living room. He sat down on the sofa at the sliding glass doors facing the beautiful ocean view. He picked up one of the books and stretched out, making himself comfortable. As he turned to page one, Peter felt a warm feeling of satisfaction. His research has finally begun.
CHAPTER EIGHT – The Past
For the seasoned Hollywood cynic, God holds no claim on sacred matrimony. Marriages aren’t made in heaven. They’re made in a studio publicity department. Consequently, no one lives unhappily ever after. Marital harmony reigns supreme.
Half of the publicist population was overpaid to present this image to a gullible world. The other half was underpaid to cover the mess of reality.
The Dream Factory didn’t only make movies.
Each time a decidedly handsome and undeniably married leading man had a fling with his leading lady, the unsuspecting public was deluged with photographs of wedded bliss. Photos would suddenly appear of the lovely little woman on one arm, a child or two on the other, and a family dog at his feet.
Should the married leading man be more attracted to another leading man, those same photos would be issued to the press. But this time, in addition to the photographs, a rumor or two would be circulated about a baby on the way or maybe suggest an affair with his leading lady. Ah, Hollywood!
Of course, the biggest (and perhaps the only) believers of this deception were the deceivers themselves. Most of the human population wasn’t stupid enough to swallow completely the meal being served. Those that were that stupid were those doing the serving, namely, both halves of the publicity department. Not one half against the other but both, collectively, as one giant unit of hapless and hopeless, “your future depends on this” company men.
What a comfortable position for the publicity family at Pinnacle Pictures! Your biggest star is the sexiest woman in the world and she wants to marry a very talented, but utterly boring, gnome of a man. She lights up the universe. He dims the bulb.
She loves him, they think (or at least suppose). But their thoughts and suppositions don’t make box office draw. Reality, once again, takes a dive.
But what exactly is reality in this particular case? What truths lie behind this oddest of couples?
Jennifer Gibbons was a mousey brown, nondescript extra in films that were too bad to be called B-movies. It was in a bottle of peroxide that she found the courage and conviction to rise to the top. In the beginning, though, not many looked beyond the platinum blonde to the heart and soul within.
Jacob Max, the head of Pinnacle Pictures, did. He wanted her groomed to be the best and knew there was no one better than his most successful director. He proudly introduced his latest discovery to Walter Addison Deane.
Slight of build, a somewhat hunched back, with his reddish hair thinning prematurely, Walter was admittedly not much of a man to the naked eye. But no one questioned the precision of his mind or the abilities he possessed. Under his direction, the worst actors delivered stunning performances.
When he first encountered Jacob’s Next Big Thing, Walter, like his boss, saw more than an empty headed bombshell. He knew the perfection of art when he saw it. He saw that perfection and so much more in Jennifer Gibbons.
It was a natural fusion. A sensuous beauty with untapped resources. A Svengali with a Midas touch. Walter was filled with an overpowering need to mold and shape this woman into the definitive actress. Jennifer willingly yielded her clay.
In the background, Jacob Max watched the scene with a skeptical eye. Of course, he wanted his actors and actresses to be talented, the best they could possibly be. Profits weren’t realized otherwise. But this time, with this woman, more was at stake. This was more than a potentially good actress. This was a potential star. The two were not necessarily interchangeable.
Star quality was not dependent on talent. Stars were manufactured and presented in a tidy package for public consumption. If you had the right face, the right attitude and the right amount of luck, you were at a definite advantage. If you had the right studio, you were home free.
Jennifer had the right face and attitude. Pinnacle was the right studio. Jacob had the power to provide the luck. And all could be for naught if this sexy little profits-maker succumbed to the ideals of art. Directors could afford to be artsy. Sex symbols could not.
Jacob discovered too late that this situation was riddled with pitfalls. Walter Deane was the best director in the business and a frequently scouted one. He remained at Pinnacle Pictures through an uncommon sense of loyalty. To do anything to annoy him meant putting money in someone else’s pocket.
Even after hours of rehearsal, he still dreaded the meeting about to take place.
Jacob’s office was surrounded on three sides by large windows overlooking the kingdom of his studio. Areas not covered by glass were painted the purest of white. The furniture was strategically placed and solid black. The effect was power and commanded respect. True, many careers ended in this room. Yet many more wayward children renounced their reckless ways when confronted by The Boss in these intimidating surroundings.
His secretary buzzed the intercom. Mr. Deane was here for his appointment.
Regal bearing, family father. This approach brought back many a stray. Should the gods smile favorably, it would work again.
“Walter, my good fellow. Come in, come in! Miss Carstairs, coffee, please. No trouble at all. Sit down, Walter. Make yourself comfortable.”
The dutiful Miss Carstairs returned with a perfectly prepared cup of coffee and wordlessly withdrew.
Jacob played with his imported cigar for a few moments before lighting it. Then he inhaled deeply and blew out several flawless rings of smoke.
“I’ve just seen the rushes of Hannibal Pass. Might be the best western ever made. You’ve done a superb job.”
“Thanks, Jacob,” Walter responded. “I’m rather pleased with it myself. Never really thought of myself as a cowboys and Indians director.”
Jacob smiled warmly, half sincere and half for effect.
“The problem with you, Walter, is that not only can you direct anything, you can always be counted on to direct it well.”
Walter smiled, a little embarrassed. Praise, even when justified, made him awkward and uncomfortable.
“I appreciate those kind words, Jacob. One likes to please the boss.”
“Ah, and please you do! I see you’ve been working with the Gibbons girl. Let me tell you, the improvement is astounding. You’re making her into quite an actress.”
“Well, thank you. Believe me, she has a natural gift or my help would mean nothing.”
“Maybe so, maybe so. But you must be working her pretty hard to achieve the results I’ve seen. How often do you work with her?”
“Oh, every chance I get. Mostly outside the studio, of course. No time during the day. On the weekends, she comes out to the beach house and we’ll spend hours working on diction and timing. I’ve even got her memorizing the classics. I tell you, Jacob, she is truly gifted.”
Jacob winced slightly at the word classics, but fortunately Walter didn’t notice.
“Well, that’s splendid, Walter. I think it’s wonderful someone of your caliber has taken such an interest in her career.”
Suddenly, his face clouded over and his look became one of paternal concern.
“Walter, did you say weekends? You don’t mean she stays overnight?”
“Oh, it’s okay, Jacob. We’re pretty much secluded out there. And besides, I have a live-in housekeeper and butler.” Walter chuckled. “A built-in chaperone, if you like.”
Jacob remained serious. “Still, it doesn’t look good. You know how the press is, Walter. They’ll jump at this sort of thing. They always do. Young Jennifer’s career could be ruined before it even begins.”
The surprisingly naïve director was visibly stricken.
“Jacob, I’m not a lecherous old man,” he stuttered. “My intentions are strictly professional! You understand that, don’t you?”
A sudden revelation flashed through Jacob’s mind. My god, he hasn’t slept with her yet! He was at once filled with amusement and scorn. Neither emotion showed.
“I do, my boy. Of course, I do. But those newspaper folk don’t care what’s honorable and what isn’t. If they get wind of this, Jennifer could face a future of non-speaking parts in low budget movies.” He made a dramatic pause. “If she even has a future.”
Silence hung between them for several minutes. Walter’s face was drawn and pale as he sat stunned by this mounting dilemma. The only outcome he desired was Jennifer’s success.
“Jacob, I’m sorry. I should have used my head,” he spoke quietly. He hung his head and stared at nothing. “I’ve been around a long time. I should have realized the damage this could do.”
Jacob got up from his chair and walked around the desk. He gently patted Walter’s slumping shoulders.
“No harm done yet, my boy. But I think it would be best if these weekend get-togethers stopped for a while. Let the press get its dirty gossip elsewhere.”
“I agree. Absolutely.”
Walter glanced at his watch and jumped from his seat.
“The time! I’d no idea! I’m sorry, Jacob. I’ve got to run. I’m shooting a scene in ten minutes.”
He walked briskly to the door, but looked back at Jacob before leaving. He bore the expression of a young boy adoring his father.
“Thank you for your help and understanding. I really appreciate it. No wonder you’re in charge.”
Then, he was gone.
Jacob Max stood there, smoking. Little by little a smile appeared on his face and grew until it reached from ear to ear. He buzzed Miss Carstairs on the intercom. “A glass of sherry, please,” which was promptly delivered.
He walked to the window behind his desk and stared at his vast empire. He sipped the sherry and was filled with its warmth. But he was warmer still from the satisfaction of his own superiority.
It would be a short lived triumph.
One week later, Jennifer Gibbons became Mrs. Walter Deane.
CHAPTER NINE - The Present
If you had asked Peter his motive the following morning, he’d have innocently and honestly replied, “I wanted some fresh air.” That the air was as fresh in the opposite direction of Casa Deane was of little consequence.
He lumbered along the water’s edge for a mile or so. From the shoreline, he looked up at the house jutting out over a rocky peak. Having come this far, Peter suddenly realized he had no plan. How could he gain access to the celluloid sanctuary? He couldn’t simply just walk in.
He stood there staring for some time, his mind furtively seeking a solution to this problem. Absorbed by his thoughts, he didn’t hear the approaching boat, nor did he hear it slip into the dock.
What he did hear was the strong, sharp voice of a man no more than two feet away.
“What do you want?” came the unfriendly question.
Peter dutifully jumped, to the satisfaction and amusement of the stranger. Already jittery from the recent past, Peter’s last nerve crumbled and his knees gave way.
A strong arm grabbed him before he fell. His first look at the face with the foreboding voice relieved his fears. The face looking intently at him now was filled with concern.
The unidentified man guided him gently toward the steps which led up to the house. With great care, he helped Peter sit down on one of the stone slabs, and then sat down beside him.
The man stared at him for some time before speaking again. His eyes took in every feature of Peter’s face, finally resting on the uncovered remains of the wound on his forehead. Self-consciously, Peter raised his hand to cover the scar.
“I suppose I should apologize for scaring you,” said the stranger. The hard edge to his voice had become somewhat mellow.
“No, no,” Peter said, “My fault. I’m trespassing.”
“Well, technically, you’re not. The beach is open to anyone. But what I want to know is what’s so fascinating about that place?” He nodded his head in the direction of the house.
“Oh. See, I’m a bit of a movie buff. A historian, actually. If I’m not mistaken, I think that’s Casa Deane. Where the famous director lived.”
“Interesting,” said the man. “Most people spying out the premises do so only because of her. The hardly seem to know who Walter is … or was.”
Unwittingly, Peter had said the right thing. Now he gazed intently at the stranger’s face. It was the face of a man slightly older than himself. Steel blue eyes were surrounded by thick brown hair with a reddish tint. The suspicion in his eyes vanished. A kindly compassion remained.
The stranger leapt to his feet.
“So you’re interested in Walter Addison Deane, Director of the Stars? Well, you’re in luck. I shall take pity on you since you are obviously a wounded man. If you are up to the climb, I will lead you onward and upward to the inner sanctum of a creative genius.”
Peter started to offer confused protest, but was dismissed by a wave of the stranger’s hand.
“We won’t be shot as trespassers, I assure you,” he said with sarcasm. “They hold little sacred in that shrine up there except for the memory of the legend.”
Still, Peter hesitated. “And they won’t mind us barging in?” he asked.
“You, perhaps, they’ll mind. Me, they have to accept. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m the offspring of that legend of legends. I’m Jeremy Deane.”
“Oh!” Peter stopped halfway up the hill. “Walter and Jennifer’s youngest son. How stupid of me! I should have guessed. Look, I’m sorry. I can’t impose on you like this.”
He started to retreat down the steps. Jeremy grabbed his arm and continued the ascent.
“Now you’re confirming your stupidity. You’ve already imposed upon me by your very presence. Having established that, let’s forge ahead. Besides, what historian worth his salt would deny himself this kind of opportunity?”
Despite the lingering aroma of stale liquor, Peter liked this man immensely. His harsh words blended with a self-deprecating humor. He may have been surrounded by success all his life, but Jeremy Deane took none of it seriously.
In short order, they reached the top of the steps. What Peter saw took his breath away. Directly in front of him was the largest swimming pool he’d ever seen. Finely crafted marble statues of Greek gods and goddesses were evenly placed around it. The pool was surrounded on three sides by the faded pink stucco of an elegant Spanish style mansion.
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