The Hollywood Murders-The Gretch Bayonne Action Adventure Series-Book 3 Page 16

  “Find one,” I replied.

  “That is a very good idea!” Marion Davies said. “There's nothing set up to help those who have been pioneers in this industry. They are just left high and dry with no place to turn to. I will talk to William, but I am certain he will be thrilled to hear you are hosting a party. And I know the perfect caterer!”

  “Book them,” I said.

  “I would love to come,” Groucho Marx said, “but I don't have a white suit.”

  “Buy one,” I said.

  “We'll need extra men for something like that,” my security guard said. “And where will we park all the cars?”

  “Figure it out,” I said.

  It's funny. I didn't want to have a party before. And now here I was organizing what would be one of the most important in recent Hollywood history at my own home. The Alma Rubens Foundation started with the idea of having yet another celebrity party. It wasn't my idea, to be honest. It was Patty Albright's.

  The Hollywood Murders

  Chapter 54

  News of my party spread through Hollywood like a fire on zoysia grass in July. The damned press got a hold of it before the invitations were even sent out. But I was used to that by now.

  I'd only invited the Grafers, but requests from many other stars asking to attend flooded in. I had to hire extra staff just to go through the mail and field the telephone calls I was receiving.

  The Alma Rubens Foundation was officially founded on August 17, 1933. A week later, the Hollywood party of the year took place at my house. For one night, no one was thinking about the murder trial that had been plaguing us all. For once in a long time, the news was focused on something positive. And it happened to be taking place at my residence.

  The streets were lined with newspaper men and photographers. I don't know how many LAPD cops were in the area. It must have been a couple dozen. They apparently had to direct traffic on my street.

  One by one, the guests began arriving. There were a total of three caterers. One served hors d’oeuvres, another was roasting a whole pig outside by the pool, and the third was boiling shrimp and lobsters in my kitchen. It was crazy.

  I had hired four young women to act as hostesses to greet everyone and show them to the food. In the meantime, I holed up in my bedroom. I didn't even want to come out, but I knew it was inevitable.

  There was a knock at my door. “Yes?” I asked.

  “Everyone is here now, sir,” the voice said. It was Pabrico, the photographer I'd hired to take the portrait.

  I pulled on my black jacket and made my way down the hall into the living room. I greeted everyone and immediately directed them to go outside to the patio by the swimming pool.

  Pabrico had a set built in the backyard where the famous photograph would be taken. It was nothing more than a few bleacher seats on different levels. But perfect to accommodate a large group photograph. The seats were enclosed in a white tent, and there were many electric lights surrounding it to make for good illumination.

  “Hey,” Jean said as the photographer began placing us. “I thought we were all supposed to be dress in white! Why are you in black?”

  “I don't wear white,” I said. “It's just not me.”

  “Then why did we have to wear white suits?” Douglas Fairbanks asked.

  “This is Mr. Bay's shoot,” Charlie Chaplin said. “We agreed to be here and dress in all white. He is the director. You should never question the director.”

  Chaplin quelled any concerns that the others may have had about my choice of outfits. Pabrico shot off a dozen rounds of photos before dismissing us, claiming that these would be the most famous pictures ever taken of Hollywood stars. He disappeared into one of my bathrooms with his camera, promising to return in an hour with the final portrait.

  “This is going to be front page news tomorrow,” Hearst assured me. “People are sick of hearing about the murder trial. It's high time something positive like this has happened in this town.”

  “I didn't want to have a party,” I replied. “There are too many parties in Hollywood as it is. And I was concerned about having guests in my house, even friends, with all of your valuable antiques here.”

  The old man motioned for me to move closer to him.

  “I'll tell you a little secret, Bay,” he said. “But you must promise not to tell anyone else.”

  “I don't like to know secrets,” I said. “Especially one's I can't repeat.”

  “Everything in this house,” he replied, “the furniture, the artwork, they are all reproductions.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “They are all fakes,” Hearst said. “Through the course of purchasing fine antiques, I made the horrible mistake of acquiring a warehouse full of nearly worthless pieces. It cost me a fortune. But I would buy on impulse, without having everything checked by experts first.”

  “So you are saying none of this stuff is legitimate?” I asked.

  “Oh, it is legitimate,” the old man answered. “Legitimate copies and replicas. But not the real thing.”

  “But Marion told me everything came from your estate,” I replied. “She said you personally chose every piece, with me in mind.”

  Hearst smiled broadly and nodded his head.

  “I was sorting through what I knew to be fakes,” he answered. “Of course, no one else knows this except for my curators. So as I said, keep this under your hat.”

  I was floored. Hearst led everyone to believe, including me, that he'd given me a small fortune worth of rare antiques and collectibles to furnish my new home. And now he was confiding in me that they were all frauds.

  “Why?” I asked. “Why the hell would you do that?”

  “You have to understand Hollywood to comprehend the answer to that question,” the old man said.

  “Then I guess I don't get it,” I replied.

  “Reality is in the eye of the beholder,” Hearst said. “If you tell them it is valuable, they will believe it. Just as I did when I was young and naive when I bought all these things many years ago. Hollywood takes cheap wood and paints it in silver and gold, and makes the whole world believe it is treasure.”

  “What about the polar bear?” I asked. “That isn't rabbit fur on a replica of a bear, is it?”

  “No,” the old man said. “Roger, the polar bear, is the only thing in the house that is real.”

  The Hollywood Murders

  Chapter 55

  Everyone signed the poster size print. Even me. And it looked fantastic.

  I knew that this was going to become a very famous photograph. Not too long ago, I would have bowed out of being in such a portrait. And now here I was, in the center of it.

  Photographer Pabrico was getting ready to leave with the photograph, promising to have prints ready to ship in a week.

  “I would like to have the original signed print back,” I told him.

  “I believe Mr. Hearst has already requested that,” Pabrico replied.

  “This is my photograph,” I said. “It is my foundation and I commissioned it. The old man can get a copy, just like everyone else. He won't know the difference.”

  “I believe he will,” the photographer said. “He is an expert on such things.”

  “You see all of these things in this house?” I asked. “Everything from the rugs to the paintings on the walls?”

  “Yes,” he replied. “It is all most impressive.”

  “And you noticed the polar bear in the corner?” I asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Pabrico answered. “But what does that have to do with the photograph?”

  I asked Pabrico to follow me as I made my way out to the pool where Hearst and the rest of the guests were lounging.

  “I've instructed Mr. Pabrico to return the original photograph to me,” I told the old man. “He has reservations about doing that because you requested it first.”

  “I did,” Hearst said. “It should be in my collection of famous autographed photographs.
It is a museum, of sorts and should have its rightful place among the others.”

  “But I want to hang it on the wall next to Roger,” I replied. “Then I will have two real, legitimate things in the house.”

  “Who is Roger?” Pabrico asked.

  “Very well,” Hearst said. “Mr. Pabrico, return the photograph to Bay when you are finished with it. I have enough autographed photos anyway.”

  It's not too often that someone gets over on the old man. He always gets his way in the end. I figured Hearst would just tell the photographer to give me a copy and tell me it was the original.

  While Pabrico was chatting with the guests, I made my way back to the library, where the photograph was. I carefully turned it over and wrote a small “b” in pencil on the lower left hand corner. It was barely visible. You would almost have to know it was there to even notice it.

  That should do it, I thought. Let him try to pass another reproduction off on me. I'll show him!

  It was very late by the time all the guests had departed. Finally, I was alone. I was exhausted, but knew I wouldn't be able to sleep. After all the fanfare with the Grafers, my thoughts returned to Patty Albright and the Hollywood murders. So I did the only thing I could think of doing. I called Wolf.

  “Why are you calling at this hour?” he asked. “I was sound asleep!”

  “I'm sorry, Wolf,” I replied. “All of my guests just left and I am too full of adrenaline to sleep.”

  “So you thought you would wake me up?” he asked. “Why didn't you just call Jean Harlow or Douglas Fairbanks? I am sure they are still awake too.”

  “I wanted to talk to you,” I answered. “I just talked to them. They just left. I will let you go back to sleep. I will call you tomorrow.”

  “I'm wide awake now,” Wolf said. “I might as well stay up at this point. I was going to call you in a couple of hours anyway.”

  “Call me about what?” I asked. “The trial?”

  “Yes,” Wolf answered. “Things have moved along faster than we expected. Patty is going to testify tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Oh my, god!” I yelled. “That is great! Then this whole thing will be over and she can come home!”

  “That's right,” Wolf said excitedly. “She's basically been a prisoner this whole time and I am sure she will be elated to have it behind her.”

  “This is great news, my friend!” I said. “Thank you!”

  “It's going to be crazy at the courthouse,” Wolf warned me. “Don't try to drive down there yourself. And get there early. The newspaper and radio men will be a mile deep there. The same men who were outside your house tonight will be back at the courthouse tomorrow, so no one is getting any sleep tonight.”

  This was it. The trial of the century was about to conclude. Once Patty testified, she would be released as the star witness and would be free again. The rest would be left up to the jurors. I suddenly regretted having the Grafer photograph party when I did. Patty would have loved to be there. As it turned out, she only missed it by one day.

  The Hollywood Murders

  Chapter 56

  I've seen some crazy scenes, but nothing compared to this day outside the courtroom for The Hollywood Murders trial. I wished I could fast forward twenty-four hours so the damned thing would be over. But instead, time slowed down like a turtle trying to cross the highway. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion.

  I was seated at the prosecutor's table next to Wolf and the Assistant D.A. To our left was the defense table where Gavin McNab sat with James Allen.

  The doors in the back of the courtroom finally swung open to reveal Patty being pushed in a wheelchair.

  What the hell is this? I thought.

  “Why is she in a wheelchair?” I asked Wolf.

  “I don't know,” Wolf whispered. “She's probably very stressed out. That is one of her doctors pushing her.”

  It didn't seem right to me that Patty would be put through all of this. I ached inside for her, unable to imagine all she had gone through. All I could do was wait and listen, like the rest of the courtroom, then take her back home when it was all said and done.

  “That bastard Allen is showing no emotion whatsoever,” I said.

  “He's a psychopath,” Wolf answered. “I think the jury knows that by now. He's been defiant throughout the whole trial.”

  Patty's physician stood next to her as she was sworn in. “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?” the bailiff asked.

  “I do,” she said.

  The tension in the courtroom was as thick as a steak at Truser's Restaurant. It was bloody rare, and I wanted to send it back. But the bill had been paid. It was too late.

  “Please state your name for the record,” the bailiff said.

  “Tammy Albright,” she said.

  For a split second, no one seemed to notice that Patty just said her name was Tammy. The judge didn't even catch it, but there were a few murmurs in the courtroom.

  The prosecutor approached Patty and asked a simple question. “Tell us, in your own words, what happened that night,” he said, “when the defendant came to your house.”

  “I lured him into the house and led him into the kitchen,” Patty said.

  “Yes,” the prosecutor said. “And then what happened?”

  “Then I stabbed him,” she replied.

  “After he attacked you?” the prosecutor asked.

  “He did not attack me,” she said. “I attacked him. And I would have killed him too, had those men not shown up.”

  The courtroom erupted into gasps of disbelief and confusion. The judge banged his gavel and demanded that everyone quiet down, while the prosecutor tried to compose himself and continue with the questions.

  “Miss Albright,” he said, “let's try this again, shall we? Tell us exactly what James Allen did once both of you were in the kitchen.”

  Patty looked down for a moment and smiled. Then she raised her head. Her voice seemed to change as she answered what would be the final question in her testimony.

  “He stood there and I stabbed him,” she said. “Like I did the others. He was in the way. You have the wrong person. I am the Valentino Killer.”

  It was like someone dropped a bomb on the courtroom. The place went absolutely nuts. The judge dismissed the jury and ordered the prosecutor and defense attorney into his chambers.

  “And you two come as well!” the judge yelled, pointing to Wolf and me.

  “I think I can explain this,” Patty's physician said.

  “I hope someone can!” the judge said, gesturing for him to follow us. “And bailiff, don't let that woman out of your sight!”

  We all sat down in the judges chambers, shocked and almost our of breathe.

  “Who are you?” the judge asked the doctor, “and what the hell just happened out there?”

  “I am Dr. Nickles,” he replied, “Patty's psychiatrist. I've been seeing her on a daily basis since the incident at her house,.”

  “This case is over,” the prosecutor said. “She was everything we had, and she just testified in front of the jury that she stabbed James Allen, not the other way around.”

  “Hell!” the judge replied. “Not only that, but she confessed to being the Valentino Killer!”

  “You have to dismiss all charges against my client,” McNab said.

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “What kind of medication has Patty been on? She's been held captive for weeks now! That wasn't Patty I just saw in the courtroom!”

  “You are right, Bay, Dr. Nickles replied. “It wasn't Patty who testified. “It was her sister, Tammy.”

  “Does someone want to explain this to me?” the judge yelled.

  “Tammy is Patty's sister,” I replied. “She was badly burned in a fire when they were twelve years old.”

  “That's not exactly true,” the psychiatrist said. “You see, Tammy died in that fire. Patty couldn't accept that, because she felt responsible for the death of her
sister.”

  “She was supposed to be there for the show but sent her sister instead,” I said.

  “In Patty's mind, her sister was still alive,” the doctor continued. “Her whole life has revolved around that ever since. It became so real to her, that she developed a split personality. Sometimes, she became Tammy. It is the most profound case of dual personalities that I have ever heard. You see, Patty, as Tammy killed those women.”

  “But what is the motive?” Wolf asked. “Why would she do that?”

  “I asked Tammy that,” Nickles replied. “She said she did it to get rid of the competition. So that Patty could get work in motion pictures. And correct me if I am wrong, but it seemed to work.”

  I felt like the Graf had just crashed down on me in horrible flames. It would have been easier to die with the ship than to accept the facts of the case. So I denied the truth.

  “That isn't possible,” I said. “What about the bicycle tire tracks?”

  “The wheelchair,” the doctor replied. “Tammy has a wheelchair. It is out in the courtroom now. The tires, I can tell you, are Bohles, the exact same ones that were found at the murder scenes.”

  “Patty couldn't do this,” I said. “I know her. This isn't possible.”

  “Patty didn't do it,” Nickles said. “Tammy did. They just happen to occupy the same body.”

  I had told Patty everything. I thought there was a leak of information from inside the LAPD. It turns out, the leak was me.

  Charges were dismissed against James Allen. The damned trial was over, but Patty wasn't coming home with me after all. Sometimes the murderer is right under your nose, and you never see it coming. And sometimes, it is even someone you fell in love with.

  End Notes: