Jeff Sherratt - Detour to Murder

I focused on the woman-beautiful face, full lips, and pencil-line eyelashes arching over her bright eyes. With her blonde hair, I imagined her eyes must have been blue.

The caption under the photograph said the woman’s name was Sue Harvey. She was out on the town with the A-list movie star, Francis Q. Jerome, her fiance.

No wonder Roberts spent all that time hitching rides across the country to be with her. Sue Harvey was stunning.

I looked up at Rita. “Did this magazine happen to have Lauren Bacall’s face on the cover?”

“Yeah, it did. How’d you know?”

An hour later Rita andI were driving north on the Ventura Freeway, heading for the Motion Picture and Television Country House and Hospital in Woodland Hills.

Rita had called a number of talent agencies until she reached an old guy who’d been involved “in the business since day one,” as he’d said. The octogenarian knew Francis Q. Jerome. He told her that the actor, now in his seventies, lived alone at one of the Country House cottages. Jerome hadn’t made a movie in years, he added, but in his heyday he’d been nominated for an Oscar as a result of his starring role in a big-budget swashbuckler from the late 1930s. But somewhere along the line “his ballet with the bottle” took over and he was now somewhat senile. Rita also found out that his marriage to Sue Harvey had lasted only six weeks.

The Motion Picture and Television Fund, which controls the forty-acre facility, was established in the 1920s by the hallowed stars of the golden age of Hollywood. Mary Pickford and her husband Douglas Fairbanks, D.W Griffith, and Charlie Chaplin among others had realized the need for a retirement home for those who had labored in the entertainment industry and had fallen on hard times. The list of people who lived there included not only actors, but also producers and directors, and behind-the-scenes people-grips, electricians, and camera operators-as well. The monthly rental tab for a cottage on the campus, as the grounds were referred to, was based on one’s ability to pay.

We entered the campus via an entrance off Mulholland Drive and drove up a curved driveway through lush grounds heading toward the administration building.

“I doubt they let just anyone walk in and bother the residents, Rita. So follow my lead,” I said as we walked along a red tile pathway that went from the parking area to the entrance of the mission-style single-story building.

We entered the lobby and approached a middle-aged woman seated behind a plain, rough-hewed antique desk. She stood to greet us.

“Good afternoon, I’m Mrs. Wardley, the concierge, but you may call me Bess.” She extended her hand. “Now how can I help you?”

After Rita and I shook her hand, I started to say, “Well. Bess, we’re here to see-”

Rita jumped in: “We’re attorneys investigating a murder case.” She gave Mrs. Wardley her business card. “We have reason to believe one of your residents, a Mr. Francis Q. Jerome, has information pertaining to the case. Could you please ring his cottage and let him know we’d like to meet with him?”

Mrs. Wardley looked at Rita, her card, and without saying a word she picked up the phone, dialed a number, and spoke in a quiet voice, then looked up at us. “He wants to talk to one of you.”

Rita and I both reached out for the phone, but my arm was longer. “Mr. Jerome, my name is Jimmy O’Brien. My associate and I drove all the way out here to speak with you.”

“Sorry, I don’t talk to lawyers. Had too many damn lawyers in my life, thieving bastards. I’ve been married five times, you know. But you can contact my agent, Warren Cowan at Rogers Cowan, Beverly Hills. What’s this all about anyway?”

“Sue Harvey.”

“I’ll meet you in the dining room in ten minutes. Bess will take you there.”

We walked a short distance and entered a large airy room with high ceilings. Light came in from windows high in a clerestory wall. Bess went back to her tasks in the lobby. We waited for Jerome, sitting in pastel-colored Naugahyde chairs at one of the many tables scattered around the room. It was past lunchtime, but still about a dozen people sat at their tables, some in small groups, probably gossiping about “The Business.”

“Isn’t that a movie star over there, Jimmy?” Rita asked, nodding in the direction of a woman sitting alone at a table a few feet away.

Without being obvious, I shifted in my seat to get a better look. “Yeah, it sure is. That’s Mary Astor!” Astor played the temptress, Brigid O’Shaughnessy in one of my favorite detective movies, which was shown continually on the Late Late Show: The Maltese Falcon . I must’ve seen it a thousand times.

I smiled and nodded at her when she noticed me staring. She smiled back and continued eating her meal, taking small bites. She was a knockout in her movies made back in the forties. She had a certain sexual allure that’s hard to describe. Today, in real life, she still looked terrific-older sure, but still beautiful.

I turned to Rita. “How’d you recognize her? She was way before your time.”

“I watch film noir on TV, too. I wonder how old she is.”

“Ageless,” I answered, taking another quick glance at the woman whose advances Humphrey Bogart-as Sam Spade-rebuffed in the name of justice. “I hope they don't hang you, precious, by that sweet neck. Yes, angel, I'm gonna send you over ,” I said softly in my best Bogey imitation.

“What’d you say, Jimmy?”

I did that Bogart thing with my mouth. “If you're a good girl, you'll be out in twenty years. I'll be waiting for you. If they hang you, I'll always remember you.”

Rita tapped my arm. “Cut it out, Jimmy.” She laughed.

We stood when Francis Q. Jerome rolled up to the table in a chrome wheelchair.

“I don’t really need this damn chair, you know. But what the hell, keeps the staff happy when I use it. Sit down. I’m Francis Jerome, now what’s this all about?”

Without waiting for an answer, he glanced around the room. “Hey, can we get a little service over here?” he said to one of the attendants, snapping his fingers. “I’ve been coming here to Chasen’s for years. Where’s Dave? He knows how I like my martinis.”

Francis Q. Jerome still had the air of a movie star. He wore a blue blazer with a scarf tied loosely about his neck. A red carnation was planted in his lapel and a sliver of white linen peeked out from his vest pocket. But the years had been hard. His hair was thin and what was left had turned an ashen grey. Liver spots dotted his wrinkled face, but it was the spider web-like veins covering his nose that exhibited a past penchant for alcohol. His once penetrating eyes were now dull and dark.

An attendant, dressed in white, more like a nurse than a waitress, came to our table. “Good afternoon, Mr. Jerome. Now remember, this isn’t Chasen’s. You’re in the dining room at the Country Home.”

“I know that, goddamn it. Just bring me some goddamn coffee.”

The nurse looked at Rita and me and smiled. Can I bring you people something, as well?”

“Thank you. Coffee would be fine,” I said. Rita seconded that.

Jerome maneuvered his chair closer to the table and studied our faces. “Okay, little lady,” he said to Rita, “I suppose you want my autograph.”

“That would be nice, Mr. Jerome.” Rita flashed one of her world-class smiles. She’d done her homework, and proceeded to soften up the old guy. “I’ve never met an Academy Award nominee before.”

“Yeah, but that was a long time ago, my dear. That and a dime will get me a cup of coffee, today.” He scribbled his name with a flourish on a paper napkin and handed it to Rita.