A Death in Hollywood

HOME

GUEST BOOK

E-MAIL

         The lights shone brightly and the jazz music played loudly throughout Pickfair, the famed Beverly Hills mansion, and although Prohibition was the law of the land, champagne and other alcoholic beverages flowed freely. The owners of the house, Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford, Hollywood’s royal couple, were seated at a table with fellow luminaries Charlie Chaplin, John Barrymore and Brooks Chesterton. Having exhausted the subjects of Fatty Arbuckle’s decline after the Virginia Rappe murder scandal and Pola Negri’s affair with Rudolph Valentino, Barrymore asked his dinner companions their opinion of Barbara LaMarr’s latest film.

         “I thought she was marvelous,” Pickford replied.

         “I knew she had talent when we acted together in The Nut,” Fairbanks declared.

         “And what a beautiful face!” Chaplin added.

         “What about you, Brooks?” Barrymore pressed. “What’s your opinion of the fair Miss LaMarr?”

         “Come now, John. You know I don’t have a very high opinion of actresses—present company excluded,” he added, lifting his champagne glass in Mary Pickford’s direction.

         “Why not?” Fairbanks, her husband, asked. “Would you have us go back to Shakespearean custom and have men play both male and female roles?”

         “I certainly hope not!” Pickford laughed. “I can’t see you wearing an evening gown and pumps, darling!”

         “What’s wrong with actresses?” Chaplin asked the respected Hollywood director.

         “In most cases, they’re little more than window dressing, pretty faces for the audience to admire.”

         “Isn’t that just a tad unfair, old boy?” Barrymore goaded him.

         “An actor brings character to a movie, whereas all too often people take more notice of an actress’ costumes than they do of her performance.”

         “Maybe I should do my next movie in the nude,” Pickford joked, determined not to let on that her guest’s crass, sexist comments annoyed her. “That way the critics will be sure to take notice of my acting ability.”

         “Personally, I think women are just as talented on the screen as men,” her husband contended. “With or without their clothing.”

         “The problem with Hollywood, as I see it, is that it’s much more difficult for a man to get into pictures,” Chesterton explained. “When was the last time a man auditioned on the casting couch? With few exceptions, men get roles based on talent, not on sexual prowess. Hence, the cream of the profession comes to the top. Women—even if they don’t sleep with someone to get a part—usually get a helping hand, a patron who gives their career a boost. It’s often been said that behind every great man there is a woman. Well, I say that behind every great actress there is a man who’s helping her career. Would Marion Davis be the star she is without Hearst’s backing? DeMille made Gloria Swanson a star. Clara Bow had Ben Schulberg. Theda Bara had William Fox. D.W. Griffith discovered Lillian Gish, Mabel Normand, Norma Talmadge and even you, Mary.”

         “And what about you?” Pickford countered. “You’ve had your share of pretty, young protégés.”

         “Precisely. I’ve been a Professor Henry Higgins to several Eliza Doolittles, all of whom are now Hollywood stars.”

         “In the spirit of Pygmalion, are you willing to put your money where your mouth is?” Barrymore laughed.

         “A bet?” Pickford cried playfully. “How divine!”

         “Yes, a bet,” Barrymore proposed. “Let’s see if you can take a woman without any acting experience and make her a star. How does a thousand dollars sound?”

         “If you want to give your money away, why not?” Chesterton replied, losing none of his arrogance. “Provided, of course, that you let someone impartial choose the girl. I don’t want you to select some gorgon and expect me to make her a goddess.”

         “We’ll let Mary choose the girl,” Barrymore suggested, winking at his hostess.

         “It’s a bet, Pickering. In one year’s time from the day Mary introduces me to my next Eliza, we’ll meet back here at Pickfair. Oh, and you won’t be able to miss me. I’ll be the one with Hollywood’s newest star on my arm.”

* * *

         Two weeks later, as Brooks was wrapping up a romantic comedy for Louis B. Mayer, Mary Pickford stopped by his office with her choice of Eliza Doolittle.

         “Is this a joke?” the director asked sarcastically when he first saw the androgynous young woman.

         “Brooks Chesterton, I’d like you to meet Colleen McCall.”

         “I thought you were going to bring me a woman, not Lon Chaney.”

         “Don’t be rude, Brooks. Colleen is a lovely girl, and I’m sure you won’t have any difficulty making her a moving picture star.”

         “Lovely? How can you tell if she even has a body under those clothes? She’s wearing trousers, for chrissakes. What woman wears trousers? And that hat….”

         All Brooks saw was a flash of silver, and the next moment, Colleen had a knife to his jugular. “Keep talking trash to me, and I’ll slit your throat from ear to ear.”

         “There’s one little thing I forgot to tell you, Colleen is on parole for attempted murder.”       Perspiration beaded on Chesterton’s forehead, and he trembled with fear. “Please don’t kill me. I apologize for what I said.”

         The young woman released the director, and then she and Pickford burst out laughing.

         “Oh, Brooks! You should have seen the look on your face!” the actress known as America’s Sweetheart declared, her famous curls bouncing as she laughed.

         “So who is this young lady?”

         “She’s a cocktail waitress at the Cocoanut Grove.”

         Colleen removed the trousers and jacket, revealing a shapely figure in a woman’s bathing costume, and when she took off the hat, a short red bob emerged. Brooks saw definite possibilities.

         “Will she do?” Mary asked as the director stared at the waitress. “Shall I tell John the bet is on?”

         “Yes, and while you’re at it, you can begin making plans for that party because in exactly one year, this duckling will be a swan.”

* * *

         The following day Colleen McCall moved into one of the guestrooms at Chesterton’s Beverly Hills mansion. With the Mayor picture completed, the director was free to turn his attention to molding the twenty-two-year-old cocktail waitress into a star.

         “Let me have a good look at you,” the director said and made the young woman stand beneath a bright Kleig light. “Your cheekbones aren’t too bad, neither are your eyes. I’ll get Max Factor to do your makeup. And your hair; it’s too short. I want you to grow it out. Nothing as long as Mary’s; shoulder length will do. And I’ll have Coco Chanel and Jeanne Lanvin design some clothes for you. If you’re going to be window dressing, you might as well be worthy of Tiffany’s window.”

         “Isn’t this going to cost a lot of money?”

         “Yes, but it’s a wise investment. I’ll get every cent back and then some. Not only will I win the bet with Barrymore, but I have no doubt you’ll be one of Hollywood’s biggest box office draws.”

         “When do I start my acting lessons?” Colleen asked.

         “We’ll get around to that,” Brooks replied. “Don’t worry,” he added when he saw the anxious look on the waitress’ face. “There’s nothing to performing in front of a camera. Besides, you ought to catch on quickly; you were pretty convincing as a paroled convict.”

         In the months that followed, Chesterton shaped his protégé with the skill of an artist molding clay. Max Factor and his assistants transformed her look. Her eyebrows were plucked and then drawn in with a pencil. Facial masks and mud treatments were applied to her skin, and depilatories were used on her upper lip to remove all facial hair. One of L.A.’s finest dentists capped her teeth, and a top hair stylist gave her shoulder-length red hair a permanent wave.

         Once Colleen’s appearance suited the director, she was taught how to walk, how to sit, how to descend a flight of stairs, how to hold a cigarette and how to drink a martini. Then she was taught how to simulate emotions with her facial muscles: love, grief, anger, jealousy and fear.

         One year from the day Mary Pickford brought the Cocoanut Grove cocktail waitress to see him, Brooks, donned in his tuxedo and waited in the foyer of his mansion for his date. When Colleen came out of the guestroom and descended the main staircase, even he was impressed by the change in her.

         “Do you know what I find most fascinating about you?” he asked.

         “No. What?”

         “Your look is unique. Every day in Hollywood you see hopefuls trying to copy Mary Pickford’s and Lillian Gish’s pipe curls or Theda Bara’s and Pola Negri’s dark sultriness. But you, you’re different from them all. Poor Barrymore doesn’t stand a chance of winning the bet.”

         Colleen beamed with a sense of accomplishment and pride, and basked in the attention of the famous director.

* * *

         After winning the bet with Barrymore, Brooks thrived on the praise he received from fellow directors, actors, agents, studio heads and members of the press. It seemed to be the consensus that the director knew talent when he saw it, and Colleen was proof positive. Her first role made her a star, and her second made her a household name. When her photograph appeared on the cover of motion picture magazine, women across the country died their hair red and copied her permanent wave.

         Unlike many actresses of her day, she was not typecast into a specific role: not a vamp, a femme fatale, a madcap comic or a flapper. With her versatility, she was equally good in historic epics, romantic melodramas and slapstick comedies. In the two years after she was paraded before the guests at Pickfair, she starred in eight films, all of which were directed by Brooks Chesterton, who became not just her mentor but also her lover.

         Having created a beautiful, desirable, accomplished woman, Brooks fell in love with his creation. Regrettably, the artist in him was not content with having produced a masterpiece. Although he and Colleen remained good friends, Brooks moved on to his next challenge: a beautiful, seventeen-year-old blonde he believed would be the next Mary Pickford.

         “April Knight has the face of an angel,” he told Colleen as they sat in his living room drinking gin and tonics and discussing his upcoming project: a film adaptation of Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities. “She’s perfect for the role of Lucie Manette.”

         “I thought that was my role,” Colleen said with an exaggerated pout.

         “No, my dear,” Brooks replied. “I think you’re a bit old for Lucy.”

         “Don’t tell me I’m to play Madame Defarge! Or should I dig out my trousers and play Sydney Carton?”

         The director laughed. “Actually, I advise you to take that role Chaplin offered you. By the time you’re done filming, I should have A Tale of Two Cities wrapped up. Then we’ll decide where we will go from there.”

         “Sounds like a good idea,” Colleen agreed. “I’ve always wanted to work with Charlie.” The actress suddenly looked at her watch, downed her gin and tonic and grabbed her coat. “Got to go. I’m meeting an absolutely gorgeous man for dinner.”

* * *

         The following morning was unusually cold for Los Angeles. Erma Clemens, Brooks Chesterton’s housekeeper, held her collar up around her neck in an attempt to fight off the cold February wind. She took out her key and let herself into the kitchen. She heard music coming from the living room and was surprised that her employer was up so early.

         “Mr. Chesterton?” she called and walked into the living room.

         It took a moment before she realized that Brooks was dead and not just passed out drunk on the floor. It was the red blood stain on the Oriental rug that finally drove the point home. When Erma realized the director had been murdered, she ran outside the house screaming.

* * *

         Detective Hollis VanHorn slammed his car door and walked up the driveway, wondering why there were so many people going in and out of the house, contaminating the crime scene.

         “Who are you?” he asked a man in an expensive suit, who was standing in the doorway.

         “I’m a close friend of Brooks Chesterton.”

         Hollis raised his eyebrows. “Friend, you say? You look like a studio lawyer to me. How did you find out about the murder so fast?”

         “One of Mr. Chesterton’s neighbors phoned the studio.”

         “I don’t suppose you got the neighbor’s name.”

         “Sorry, no.”

         Hollis was not surprised. The studios had people on their payrolls to circumvent potential scandals. Sex, drugs, alcohol, suicide, extramarital affairs and mental illness were common in the movie capital and were routinely hushed up in the press. Murder, though, was another matter. The man in the expensive suit was no doubt sent for damage control.

         The detective stepped inside the mansion, took his pen and notebook out of his jacket pocket and called, “Who found the body?” It was time to get to work.

         At the end of the day, the divorced detective stopped at a local diner for dinner. As he waited for his meatloaf special and Coca-Cola, he went over his notes to piece the information together. At the top of a clean sheet of notebook paper he wrote the word TIMELINE and underlined it. Directly beneath that he wrote EARLY EVENING B.C.—referring to the victim by his initials—HAD DRINKS WITH COLLEEN MCCALL.

         According to the actress, she left at roughly 7:00 p.m. for a dinner date. Brooks had walked her to her car and then went back into his house as she drove away. Her chauffer confirmed the time. Hollis wrote down 7:00 MCCALL LEAVES. B.C. IS ALONE IN HOUSE.

         Two neighbors both reported hearing what they believed was an automobile backfiring sometime between 8:00 and 8:30. One neighbor went to the window and saw someone walking away from the house shortly thereafter. When asked to describe the person, she said, “I can’t give you much of a description because it was dark, and the man had a hat pulled down over his face.”

         “But you could see his build, couldn’t you? Was he tall? short? heavy? thin?”

         The woman gave the question some thought. “He was on the short side, I think. You must realize I was looking down at him from a second story window. But I think he was rather short and thin. He was….” The woman hesitated, and she blushed with embarrassment as she continued, “…well, what my father in England used to refer to as a poof.”

         “A poof?” Hollis was unfamiliar with the term.

         “Yes. He walked funny, more like a woman than a man.”

         Hollis was not surprised by this fact since Hollywood had a large homosexual population.

         As the waitress brought out the detective’s meatloaf, he wrote down B.C. SHOT BETWEEN 8:00 AND 8:30. EFFEMINATE MAN SEEN IN VICINITY.

         Hollis took several bites of his meatloaf, washed them down with a drink of Coke and wrote 7:00 A.M. NEXT MORNING HOUSEKEEPER DISCOVERS BODY on his timeline. 8:15 POLICE CALLED. STUDIO LAWYER CALLED SOMETIME EARLIER.

         The detective took several more bites of his dinner and sips from his soda, and then he flipped a page in his notebook and wrote SUSPECTS on top. At that point, he drew a blank.

* * *

         In the course of his investigation, Detective VanHorn interviewed a cross-section of Hollywood. On one end were the actors, stuntmen, directors, and studio bosses. On the other were the darker elements: mobsters, bootleggers, prostitutes and bookies. The picture of Chesterton that emerged revealed a man of few vices. There was no hint of drug use or gambling. He drank occasionally but not to excess, and he was discreet in his sexual affairs. His only passion was for his work.

         “A man without any apparent enemies,” the police captain said after reading his underling’s report.

         Hollis shrugged. “The man had two bullets in his back. Somebody out there didn’t like him.”

         The captain referred to the report again. “What about April Knight? Do you think she had something to do with Chesterton’s death?”

         “It’s possible, but not likely. Unless I’m mistaken, she’s just a sweet kid. My bet is on her mother. She was a former Broadway actress, nothing major, just a few supporting roles. She came out to Hollywood to break into the movies, but no luck. She decided to make her daughter a star instead.”

         “Ah, one of those,” the captain laughed. Many a Hollywood starlet had her mother’s handprints on her back. “What about this studio lawyer who was at the house on the morning after the murder?”

         “He was there to protect the studio’s interest, no doubt. I noticed there were glowing embers in the fireplace and bits of charred paper. My guess is a letter or letters of some kind.”

         “Blackmail? Love letters?”

         “Could be either. We’ll never know. But our victim has a history of falling in love with his protégés. April Knight is only seventeen, and Brooks Chesterton is thirty years her senior.”

         “There could be a motive somewhere there,” the captain suggested. “Make sure you double check the mother’s alibi again.”

         “That would explain the burned letters. Could be the mother, the studio or April herself wanted to cover up the affair. We could be wrong about the daughter, though. The mother was Chesterton’s age, and she probably still had aspirations for her own career. What if she wanted the director herself? What if Chesterton spurned her? What if she was jealous of her own daughter? What if…?”

         In the end, after an exhaustive investigation, that was all Hollis VanHorn had: a long string of what if’s.

         Eventually, the murder of Brooks Chesterton took backstage to more crucial matters, mainly the advent of talking pictures. Although most studios believed “talkies” would never replace silent films, the new technology would take hold, and many of the established stars of the silent era would see their careers destroyed.

* * *

         The lights shone brightly and the jazz music played loudly throughout Pickfair, the famed Beverly Hills mansion, and although Prohibition would remain the law of the land for several more years, champagne and other alcoholic beverages flowed freely. The owners of the mansion, Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford, Hollywood’s royal couple, were seated at a table with fellow luminaries Charlie Chaplin, John Barrymore and Colleen McCall. The conversation shifted from the success of The Jazz Singer to memories of lost friends. Rudolph Valentino, the Great Latin Lover, died of peritonitis. Barbara LaMarr, whom the press dubbed “The Most Beautiful Girl in the World,” died from tuberculosis and nephritis after battling a heroin addiction. Matinee idol Wallace Reid, his health deteriorating due to a morphine addiction he acquired after a train accident, contracted the flu and died.

         “And then there was poor Brooks Chesterton,” Barrymore reminisced.

         “Pity the police never found out who murdered him,” Fairbanks declared.

         His wife, Mary Pickford, couldn’t help glancing at the woman across the table from her. It seemed like only yesterday that she’d taken Colleen to Chesterton’s office. In just a few short years, Brooks was gone and Colleen was an acclaimed star. Funny how things worked out, she thought. It was true that Colleen had been a cocktail waitress at the Cocoanut Grove, but it was also true that she had once gone to prison for the attempted murder of her boyfriend who had the audacity to leave her for another woman. Pickford had known of the woman’s past and selected her for that very reason. Brooks had been insufferably arrogant the night he made the Pygmalion bet with John Barrymore, and Mary had hoped to take him down a peg. But to give the devil his due, Brooks had made the proverbial silk purse out of a sow’s ear.

         Colleen noticed Pickford’s brown eyes watching her. A look passed between the two women, but not a word was spoken. As the conversation shifted from dead friends to Walt Disney’s animated short films, Pickford turned her attention to her husband. “Walt has a new character, doesn’t he? A mouse, I believe. His face looks a lot like Oswald, the Lucky Rabbit’s.”

         Colleen McCall was not interested in rabbits, mice or Walt Disney. She was disturbed by the look she’d seen in Mary Pickford’s eyes. She knows I did it. She knows I killed Brooks Chesterton. She probably guessed that I put on the men’s trousers I wore when I first met him, and then went back to his house later that night and shot him. The question was, would America’s Sweetheart convey her suspicions to the police? Colleen hoped not. Maybe she understands why I did it. Maybe deep down inside she wonders if she would do the same if her husband, Doug, decided to throw her over for a seventeen-year-old girl.

         The cocktail-waitress-turned-actress then firmly pushed the unpleasant thought of murder and retribution from her mind. It was Hollywood, after all, and there were stories to be told and dreams to be captured on film.

Back in 1922, Salem co-starred in the silent film Nosferatu, playing Count Orlock's first victim.