That’s what worries Frankie, that what they’ve done to protect the living could come at the expense of the dead.

  “The crime scene was a mess,” he continues. “Everyone in and out and touching things they shouldn’t. Nico’s guys did their work before the cops even got there. What chance do the police have when everything’s been tampered with like that?”

  A pause as someone passes too close to their table and smiles in Jack’s direction.

  Jack gives a nod and a wave. “One more thing. June and Ida were fighting.”

  “You think Ida did it?”

  He looks straight at her, his blue gaze steady. A Ulysses, she hears the boy long ago declare over the electric-blue butterfly.

  “No,” he says. “I think she was going to meet her, to apologize or something. Maybe June was waiting for her. There were two glasses, remember?”

  “Ida doesn’t know how to apologize. And the porch light wasn’t on. It’s dark there; she’d have left it on if she were expecting somebody.”

  “Maybe someone didn’t show. Maybe she turned off the light before—” He stops talking, spotting Fred weaving through tables. “Wait,” he quickly adds, “you’re not going to tell me what’s wrong?”

  “I guess I didn’t really learn the lessons I thought I did.”

  Then she’s up and heading to the side exit. Pushing through the door, she gives one last glance over her shoulder. Fred and Jack are hugging, best friends who’ve only just now met.

  Chapter 19

  Words Don’t Pull the Trigger

  Tuesday, March 7, 1933

  Everyone braces for the funeral the next day. Last-minute seating charts, flower arrangements plotted on a map, programs with June’s face hot off a printing press. Go to bed early, Nico tells Frankie. Tomorrow’s a big day. But at almost eleven p.m., her phone rings.

  “I’m at the Tam O’Shanter,” Nico says. “That’s not far from you, is it?”

  Fifteen minutes later, Frankie’s got a long coat tied tight around navy silk pajamas and is parked in front of the storybook-style house. Stepping inside is like entering a Scottish hunting lodge, with coved timbered ceilings, dark wood walls, and yellow lighting that makes her feel as though she can’t see properly. Coats of arms hang from the walls, and a diamond-shaped lattice window reflects the room’s warmth. Actors and producers and directors alike all dine here, with the exception of Jack. Even when Mary Pickford asked him to join her, he made excuses, claiming he couldn’t meet at the Tam O’Shanter because he wanted an excuse to visit Pickfair, the twenty-five-room mansion where Mary and Douglas Fairbanks famously canoe in their enormous pool. A bit of a farther drive, Jack told Frankie, but if you can finagle an invite, you go. You better believe I’ll pass up the Scottish place any day. When she pressed him on his avoidance of the restaurant, he admitted that one night someone spilled a bottle and the restaurant reeked like the Highlands. And how would you know? she asked playfully, aware he’d never been to Scotland. Because my dad was Scottish, and it smelled just like him, and now you know why I don’t drink Scotch or even Irish whiskey. Or, she understood, dined at a place that brought it all back.

  Nico sits at a table by the fireplace, not far from Walt Disney’s usual spot. Flames crackle and shift orange and yellow, breathing hot beneath a large portrait in a gilded frame, and Frankie imagines the paint bubbling and boiling, and a worker replacing the painting every night when the doors lock.

  Nico takes in her navy-blue silk pant legs. “Dressed up for me, I see.”

  “You were the one who said to go to bed early. Just because I’m summoned doesn’t mean I’m awake.”

  “You want an apple juice or something?”

  “Just because I don’t drink doesn’t mean I’m twelve.” She smiles, but there’s a testiness pushing against her that wants out. A waiter stands off to the side. “Canada Dry ginger ale and lime, please,” she says.

  The bottom of Nico’s glass flashes with light as he downs the dregs of his cocktail. “Ginger ale’s only good to mask bootleg liquor.” He slides his glass to the edge of the table.

  The waiter appears to be waiting for Nico to approve her order. Frankie repeats herself, firmly, and catches Nico smiling. At last, the waiter taps his pencil on a pad of paper, takes Nico’s glass, and disappears.

  Sitting back in his chair, Nico says, “Bank holiday’s about to be everywhere, not just here. You got money out in time?”

  “A lot’s been happening.”

  “Frankie.” But then he nods. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  “You asked me to come here. You tell me.”

  “I mean, you don’t seem happy.”

  “There’s the obvious fact, that—” But she stops, catching the look on his face. She doesn’t need to remind him that someone they cared about is dead. Leaning forward, she says, “Everything we’re doing feels wrong.”

  “There’s no being perfect in an imperfect system.”

  “I don’t know what that means, but it sounds like an excuse.”

  Now he smiles. “You know who was here all the time? Fatty Arbuckle.”

  The Keystone Studios turned Paramount star who was so popular and rich he had a twenty-room mansion with gold-leaf bathtubs. But then, in ’21, he was arrested for rape and murder. Though he was eventually acquitted, the scandal ruined his career. The first big celebrity scandal, what he went through was a salacious story that the public lapped up. A moneymaking spectacle.

  Nico continues. “I haven’t stopped thinking about him since this started. He’s the reason the studios came up with morality clauses in the first place. Universal first, mandating nonpayment to actors who ‘forfeit the respect of the public.’ The respect of the public. Could mean almost anything, right? But Fatty, he was either an innocent man destroyed, or justice was served, because he lost everything. Really, I don’t know. What I do know is that the real sentence was determined in the court of public opinion, and that is the court where you and I work.”

  Frankie feels the heat from the fire, and shifts in her seat, uncomfortable. “Murder or rape, or a crime where somebody gets hurt, of course they should be punished. But human things, like a mistake? Nico, shouldn’t they be able to do that? Because the public’s standards of what’s respectful—I don’t think they’d hold their best friends to those standards.”

  Nico nods as the waiter sets down their drinks. “A painting is good or not good, and it has nothing to do with the artist going to church or cheating on his wife. That’s the truth. But then the person behind it gets famous enough that the public takes credit for that fame. We made them, we can unmake them.”

  “Doesn’t mean it’s right.”

  “Right or wrong, the public is necessary. That’s why they get a say. Does it matter if you’re talented in a room by yourself? No? Then you need the public. Simple.”

  The nature of celebrity centers on the stars’ lives, Nico’s said. Frankie takes a sip of her drink. “But it still might go too far.”

  Nico nods. “It still might go too far. And you and I are the ones who try to protect them from that.”

  “Them, or the studio?”

  “You tell me.”

  With her finger, Frankie traces the edge of her glass. “Jack said the tide is going to turn.”

  “Already has.”

  She looks up sharply.

  “That neighbor lady, Darlene Cleary. She went to the police and said Jack was there that night, in the second bungalow.”

  Somewhere, a glass spills. There is a tumble and rush of water, ice cubes hitting the ground as voices rise. “But Mickey puts a stop to that, right?”

  “Usually he would, but she didn’t give him a chance. She already called Dottie.”

  “So we get Dottie to bury it. What can we give her?”

  “Frankie, we’re having this conversation because it’s too late for that. Dottie’s got it in print tomorrow. First thing.” He takes a sip of his drink and winces from the cold. “Been a busy night. Bottom line: Dottie wants to be in our good graces, but this is too big. You remember the night of the premiere, I made some stupid joke about how I swore Jack wanted to kill June?”

  “Sure. A joke.”

  “And ill-timed, because Dottie heard. Combine that with Darlene saying Jack was there, and voilà, the story’s got legs. At least as far as Dottie’s concerned.”

  This is it. The words streak through her mind. All at once, she feels the shift, that Jack’s been pushed straight into the path they wished to avoid. “But Darlene has no proof. She only suspected he was there.”

  “If she had proof, he’d be arrested by now. But does it matter? We know what an accusation can do.”

  Perception takes more casualties than truth ever saves.

  Nico continues. “There’s more. And this complicates things. I needed to know what Tank’s alibis were gonna say so I know what the cops are gonna know. So my guys tracked them down. Every one of them. They’re solid. They all corroborate Tank’s story that he went to visit a friend at Loyola Marymount University after the premiere.”

  “They could be lying.”

  “Of course they could. But he’s got several people saying this, including ‘esteemed’ professors, so it’s a bit uphill from here. But they were drinking. All night.” A pause, and he explains: “Jesuits.”

  “And Mickey doesn’t know this yet?”

  “Well, unfortunately for Mickey, we had some VIP passes at Agua Caliente—that casino and spa in Tijuana. They got a nice racetrack too. So, you know, those folks might be hard to reach. We’ve got a day, two maybe.”

  A loud snap from the fireplace. Both of them turn. A tendril of smoke curls into the air and disappears.

  “They’re burning wet wood,” Nico says.

  “Do we tell Mickey about the baby?”

  His eyes widen. “So what, someone can make a pretty penny selling the story that she was knocked up? So we destroy her reputation needlessly?” He pauses as if to give her time to answer, though clearly he spoke rhetorically. “Just so you know, I had my guys look into the man to be sure, and they said it too; the father was harmless. Why drag her reputation through the mud?”

  “Because they’re going to look at Jack.”

  “Not with a little luck.” A pause, and he says, “One of the main working theories is that someone overheard the bit about no security and followed her home.”

  The way he says it—clearly, concisely—is so logical that it seems impossible that’s not it. This is really what happened. “The bit that I said, you mean. I did this.”

  “No. Come on. That’s why I almost didn’t tell you. But look at me, look at me—it’s one theory of many. And it’s the start of a theory. And ultimately it doesn’t matter—you could say anything you want, words don’t pull the trigger. But, Frankie, we want them to go that route, because it doesn’t involve Jack. You understand? At this very moment, they’re still thinking it’s Tank, but when they check everything out, like my guys did, they’ll decide it’s not Tank, and we’re going to want them to focus on the theory that someone in that crowd heard what you said—even if that wasn’t it. All right? This is a good thing. I promise.”

  The room dims. A couple has stopped before the fireplace, warming their hands. She’d assured Jack that the police were trying to solve this when he worried that nothing was truly being done. But he was right. In fixating on what’s very possibly a dead end, or on the dangled carrots only meant to distract, the only thing no one’s looking at just might be the truth.

  Chapter 20

  Luck Has Nothing to Do with It

  Wednesday, March 8, 1933

  President Roosevelt—only thirty-six hours into his presidency—shut banks down nationwide. California, however, was already disrupted with a freeze of its own, and now people with already loose belts find themselves staring into a bleak future. As the radio announcer lists off markets that are willing to extend credit, Frankie reminds herself that she has Nico if she runs out of money, and that the studio covers her big expenses. It’s a comforting thought that also leaves her uneasy.

  Then she hears Jack’s name from the radio.

  “This, on the day of June Finney’s funeral! A neighbor at the house where our starlet was murdered saw Jack Sawyer next to the body—wearing a bloody tux. Wearing a bloody tux! That’s right, folks, I said blood. But here’s the kicker: The woman says he was there all night. Pee-yew, are we beginning to catch the stench of a lie? It’s all in today’s paper, so be swift and find yourself a newsie.”

  Hair unbrushed, Frankie races to the nearest stand and reads the entire article while walking back to her car. Mist swims in the air, gathering on print that smudges and smears. The pull quote alone is damaging. Jack Sawyer was there. The article is conjecture and speculation, but the fact that he’s linked in this way to the location and even the time of the murder is enough.

  Less than an hour later, Frankie arrives at Hollywood Memorial Park. She’s early, but craving the quiet. The walkways are empty, grass jeweled with dew. Bags of lawn clippings line the road, and in the far distance, a groundskeeper gathers leaves into yet another pile. Frankie readies the site, and tries to not picture Jack at home, a newspaper with Dottie’s article outside his front door. I gave him a warning, Nico told her last night, but I don’t think he followed just how bad it could get. Given today’s news, Frankie’s opted to rearrange the seating chart just slightly, tucking Jack off to the side so he’s less visible to the press.

  Slowly, the mist burns off. The bags of grass clippings are hauled away. When people start to arrive, they bring updates: A crowd has gathered outside the studio, demanding Jack be arrested.

  Frankie stands close to Nico. “All from one article without any facts. The same people loved him just yesterday.”

  Nico nods a greeting to a man who walks with a cane, slow and plodding. “The only thing they’d love more than Jack being a victim is him being a killer.”

  Fans are penned up just beyond the arriving limousines, held back by barricades. In the very front are three young women Frankie recognizes from outside the studio gates, each holding We love You, Jack! signs. “Lucky they came here today.”

  Nico laughs. “Luck has nothing to do with it. But the studio tour I promised them might.”

  White lilies are everywhere, though the studio arranged to have what looks like a waterfall of pink roses cascade down the sides of the stone mausoleum.

  “Where will you go?” a man off to Frankie’s right asks his friend. Frankie thinks they’re talking about dinner until the man answers.

  “Forest Lawn. Double plot, me and the missus. Plunked down a pretty penny.”

  June has an entire building, it seems, while Frankie’s own mother is on Hart Island, New York City’s potter’s field, a municipal burial ground where the unclaimed and poor are buried. Only a mile long, it’s a remote stretch of sorrow and sadness, tucked off the edge of the Bronx. It never occurred to Frankie to wish for more.

  “I hate lilies,” she says to Nico.

  “Good to know.”

  “She’s got room for a family of four to live inside there. Furniture, the works.”

  “If you go missing, I know where to find you.”

  The procession of limos continues, curved around the road in a dark gleam of grief. Soon, everyone who’s anyone is here, and the day becomes mockingly clear and beautiful. Knives of sunlight glint on the pond near the mausoleum. Now, more than ever, they need to draw attention away from Jack. A robbery gone wrong, Nico’s been saying all morning. Each time she hears it, Frankie’s thoughts spin with guilt. “Jack’s still not here.”

  Nico doesn’t look concerned. “I told him to play it safe and wait till after she’s in place.”

  Frankie understands what Nico means when she spots a hearse in the distance, slowly beginning its approach. A hush falls, everyone silenced and waiting.

  Pallbearers are in position. Fans push against barricades, ripples of grief overtaking them. With the first glimpse of the casket—a shock of white—there is a loud, solitary wail. Frankie turns in time to see Nico grasping Ida’s arm, fighting to keep her steady. It’s too much. The bright shine of the casket, the graves of all the people who no longer draw crowds, or who maybe never drew a crowd. All Frankie can bear to watch are the pallbearers’ shoes. Black and shiny. One foot in front of the other.

  That day in New York years ago, that afternoon when the sky split with color—that was it. No matter how she looks at it, that was the only path to California and working for Nico. Right there, right then. Though she can examine and chide herself for much else, nothing would’ve happened if the sky didn’t crack open that day. She never would’ve stood on a street in Hollywood and announced that a starlet would be by herself with a valuable necklace, nor would she have suggested she stay alone and unprotected. The more Frankie thinks about it, the further she digs herself into this hole: June might be alive if it weren’t for her.

  A murmur. People turn, leaning into each other with whispers, as Jack steps out of a limo. Without looking at anyone, he heads straight to the coffin while the world around him silences. Head down, his shoulders hunch like they do when he’s holding too much in.

  Nico’s suddenly at her side. “Go see to him.”

  Just as she’s stepped beyond another plot, she notices a tall man in the distance, his face in his hands. About to trip, she quickly looks down, narrowly avoiding a low marker, and it’s then that she places who the man is: Tank.

  She looks back up, but there’s no one by the tree. Was it really Tank?

  Quickly she waves Nico over, and within seconds he’s gathered a few of his men. They spread out, long strides through the grass, while Jack stands by the coffin, a handkerchief hanging from his hand.

  When she’s beside him, he keeps his head down. “She’s really in there?”