Beverly Hills Dead

38

Tom drove over to RKO Studios and identified himself to the front gate guard. “I’m looking to talk with an RKO script girl named Hank Harmon,” he said to the guard.

“Sure, I know Hank,” the guard said, “but she’s not working here today. She’s over to the Culver lot, where they’re shooting a western.”

“Thanks.” Tom turned around and drove out to the “forty acres,” as it was known, the back lot where many films had been shot, including a lot of the exteriors for Gone With the Wind. He gave the gate guard his card and talked his way onto the lot, following directions to the western street set. He parked some distance away and walked over, not wanting to make car sounds when they might be shooting. In his time at Centurion, Tom had learned how to move around a movie studio without disrupting production.

He found the western street and saw the production grouped at the far end, shooting a street fight. Staying out of camera range, he moved closer down the street.

Hank Harmon was not hard to spot. She was sitting in a folding canvas chair a few feet from the director, a notebook in her lap, her face partly obscured by large sunglasses. She was handsome rather than beautiful, but striking nonetheless. She was wearing a western shirt and boots, and a buckskin jacket was draped over the back of her chair. Tom waited twenty minutes or so while they finished with the setup, and when they broke to move the camera, he approached Hank Harmon.

“Miss Harmon?” He extended a hand and smiled. “I’m Tom Terry from Centurion Studios.”

She returned his smile and his handshake. “How are you, Tom?” She seemed a very pleasant person. She was very tall — Tom estimated six feet or more, with the high-heeled boots — and slender but athletic-looking.

“Just fine, thanks. I wonder if you can help me. I’m looking for Susan Stafford. Do you know where I can find her?”

“Why no. She shared my apartment for a few months, but yesterday she came by and removed her things. The last time I spoke to her, she said she planned to move into her bungalow at Centurion.”

“Did you see her yesterday when she came by?”

“No, I was out. I went to the farmer’s market, which I do every Sunday, and when I came back she had come and gone. She left a note.”

“I wonder, may I have a look at the note?”

“What’s this about, Tom?”

“No one has seen Susan since she left your house yesterday, and we’re concerned.”

“Who’s ‘we?’”

“The studio. Susan was supposed to take a flight to New York this morning, but she missed it, and we haven’t been able to locate her. Maybe there’s something in her note that could give us some indication of where she went or, at least, her state of mind.”

“There was nothing like that in the note; what she had to say was more of a personal nature. I don’t have it with me, anyway. But her state of mind was just fine. She said she was moving in with Vance Calder.”

“I’m sorry, I thought you said she told you she was moving into her bungalow when you last saw her.”

Hank blinked rapidly. “I guess things must have progressed with Mr. Calder in the meantime.”

“What was there about the note that made you believe her state of mind was ‘just fine,’ as you put it?”

“It was just normal Susie stuff. She didn’t seem upset or anything.”

“When was the last time you saw Susan?”

“Oh, it was some time ago, before she went away on location for her picture.”

“Was she living in your apartment up until the time she went on location?”

“Yes.”

“And after she came back?”

Hank looked away. “No, she didn’t return to my place after that.”

“Did you two break up before she left?”

Now Hank began to look wary. “Break up?”

“What was the nature of your relationship with Susan?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“How many bedrooms are in your apartment?”

“One.”

“And how many beds in that room?”

“Excuse me. I thought you said you work for Centurion, but you’re beginning to sound like a policeman.”

“I used to be a cop; I apologize if I sounded that way, but we’re very concerned about Susan. What was the nature of your relationship?”

“We were friends.”

“Were?”

“Obviously, if she moved out, we’re not as close now.”

“She had quite a few of her things at your apartment, didn’t she?”

“She had everything there.”

“But you haven’t seen her for a period of many weeks, and she only moved her things out yesterday. What did she do for clothes?”

“Well, I assume the studio supplied her with western wear in Wyoming.”

“Costumes, yes.”

“Perhaps she went shopping. I don’t know.”

“Did you drive her car to Vance Calder’s house some time yesterday?”

“Why, no.”

“So if we go over her car for fingerprints, we won’t find any of yours in the car?”

Now Hank was looking just a little flustered. “Well, I have been in her car in the past.”

“Have you ever driven it?”

“No. Susie always drove.”

“Then your fingerprints wouldn’t be on the steering wheel or the gearshift or the keys.”

“Well, I...”

“Hank!” an assistant director yelled from a few yards away. “We need you.”

“You’ll have to excuse me,” Hank said, looking relieved.

Tom gave her his card. “Will you call me if you hear from Susan?”

“Of course,” she said, then walked away.

Tom walked quickly back to his car. He drove back to the studio, lost in thought, and not good thoughts. Back in his office he checked his watch and called the restaurant Voisin in New York. A woman with a French accent answered, and he asked her to find Rick Barron and bring him to the phone. It took several minutes.

“Hello?”

“It’s Tom.”

“What’s up?”

“I spoke with Hank Harmon half an hour ago.”

“And?”

“All sorts of warning signs in the interview. You know what I mean.” Rick had been a cop, too.

“Yes, I do. What’s your best judgment, Tom?”

“I think Susan Stafford never left Hank Harmon’s apartment alive.”

“Tom,” Rick said, “call in the police.”