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  Jerusha liked Pearl immediately, and so did I. From her descriptions, Pearl sounded down-to-earth, a real good-time gal, the kind of friend who’d give you the shirt off her back, or five bucks to see you through till payday.

  It was through Pearl that Jerusha met Anne Hayes, a sensible and forthright young woman from Colorado. Anne lived in another boarding house down the street and worked as an extra and bit player at some of the larger studios, including Metro. Soon Jerusha and Anne became good friends. It was early in 1939 that Anne and a friend of hers, Ellie Snyder, broached the subject of leaving their boarding house and renting a bungalow Anne had her eye on. They needed more roommates to afford the rent. The figure Jerusha mentioned in her letter sounded like a pittance to me now, but by the standards of the late thirties it was a big sum. And I knew Jerusha never made a fortune in Hollywood. The four women finally moved in together in April of 1939. The cottage had two bedrooms, and the larger of these was partitioned, providing space for two twin beds. The smaller bedroom had one bed, and the back porch had been enclosed and turned into a makeshift bedroom. The four roommates drew straws for the sleeping accommodations. Ellie and Pearl wound up sharing the larger bedroom, Anne got the small bedroom all to herself, and Jerusha got the back porch, along with a promise that if anyone moved out, she could graduate to an actual bedroom.

  I didn’t get much of a sense of Ellie, but soon she was gone, back to Washington State. Jerusha moved from the porch to the large bedroom, sharing the space with Pearl. The new roommate stayed only a few months, leaving at the end of 1939, and was replaced in January 1940 by another Colorado girl, Mildred Peretti. Jerusha wrote that Mildred was a friendly girl who liked to bake and kept the household supplied with cakes and cookies. In the past they’d used the cookie jar as a stash for the grocery money, Jerusha added, but since Mildred kept the jar filled with cookies, they’d transferred the funds to an old coffee tin. All the roommates pitched in for food and other essentials. In her letters Jerusha sometimes referred to the price of groceries. A loaf of bread cost eight cents back in 1940, mere pennies to me now.

  Most of the time the roommates used public transportation, but Pearl had acquired a car, purchased from her cousin, a fisherman in the port community of San Pedro. It was a 1931 Model A Ford, its formerly black finish weathered to a murky gray, and more dings than paint, according to Jerusha. Anne dubbed the car the Gasper, because it always seems to be gasping its last, but it kept running, despite its disreputable appearance, Jerusha wrote, and all four young women chipped in to buy gas, at nineteen cents a gallon. I shook my head at that. Those gas prices were long gone.

  In addition to the cost of living, my grandmother’s letters to her sister mentioned current events, such as Franklin Roosevelt running for a third term as president, and the war now raging in Europe. Closer to home, in February 1940, she and Pearl had gone to the racetrack at Santa Anita, to watch the fabled horse Seabiscuit’s comeback run in the Handicap, known as the Hundred Grander. I knew this because my grandmother had told me many times. But it was so much more vivid reading the description she’d written to her sister that very evening.

  I read through the letters from 1940 and the early months of 1941, more slowly now, looking for any mention of Ralph Tarrant. I saw nothing. Then I opened an envelope with a May 1941 postmark. The first few lines brought a smile to my face. On a sunny Saturday morning, my grandmother and her roommate Pearl had gone on an outing, to buy produce and other supplies at the Farmers Market on Third and Fairfax. Jerusha met someone there, a young man who came from a town in the Sierra Nevada just like her.

  His name is Ted, she wrote, and I like him a lot.

  Chapter 6

  Los Angeles, California, May 1941

  It was a fine Saturday morning in May, with a glorious blue sky. Too pretty a morning to stay in bed. Jerusha and Pearl took the Gasper, Pearl’s old Model A Ford, to the Farmers Market.

  “I guess I’m still a small-town girl in that way,” Pearl said as she slowed and signaled a turn. “I’m used to buying produce direct from the farmers.”

  “We always did, back home in Jackson,” Jerusha said. “It just tastes better.”

  The market was seven years old now, started in 1934, with stalls set up at the corner of Third and Fairfax. Pearl angled the Ford into a parking space and cut the engine. They got out of the car and strolled toward the first row of stands, both carrying baskets. Jerusha had the list and the coin purse with the money from the grocery kitty. They made their way down the aisles, carefully selecting their purchases, checking items off the list, as Pearl told Jerusha about her latest part in a movie at Warner Brothers.

  “We start shooting in June. It’s a remake of Satan Met a Lady, that movie with Bette Davis, back in ’thirty-six.”

  Jerusha looked over a bin of oranges. “I saw that picture. It was awful, a remake of something with Ricardo Cortez in ’thirty-one.”

  “I think this one will be good,” Pearl said. “It’s got a great cast, Humphrey Bogart and Mary Astor.”

  “Who’s directing?” Jerusha squeezed an orange and set it aside.

  “John Huston. He worked on the script for High Sierra. He was hitting on all six with that script. But this is his first time out as a director.”

  Jerusha selected four oranges and paid for them. “What’s it called?”

  “They’ve got a couple of working titles—The Gent from Frisco and The Knight of Malta. They should just use the title of the book it’s based on. The Maltese Falcon. The guy that wrote that, Hammett, he wrote The Thin Man, too. I like Bogart. He was such a nice guy when we were making High Sierra.”

  “Yes, he is. I worked with him and Raft last year in They Drive by Night.” Jerusha moved toward a display of snap beans and spinach. Early tomatoes, too, but they didn’t look ripe enough to suit her. “I’ll be at Warner Brothers next month, too. I have a bit in a picture with Raft, Edward G. Robinson, and Marlene Dietrich. Raoul Walsh is directing.”

  “Raft, can that man dance! What a pepper shaker.” Pearl pointed at a stand. “We need eggs, right? That’s a good price.”

  “Yes, it is.” Jerusha opened the coin purse and doled money into Pearl’s waiting hand. While Pearl bought the eggs, Jerusha walked on, then stopped to look at bins of apricots and cherries, first of the season. She bought both, then strolled to the next stall, where boxes of fat red strawberries beckoned.

  Inside the stall a young man sat on a stool, head tilted back as he drained a bottle of Coca-Cola. When he saw Jerusha, he discarded the empty bottle and stood, moving toward her. He was tall, with a lanky frame and a head of curly red hair. His face was tanned but that didn’t disguise a liberal dusting of freckles. His eyes were as green as glass, with a roguish twinkle as he picked up a bowl of strawberries. “Sweetest strawberries in California. Almost as sweet as you.”

  What a line. Jerusha smiled in spite of herself. She liked his looks, those green eyes and the smile that curved his lips. “How would you know how sweet I am?”

  “I can tell just by looking at you,” he said. “Here, taste one.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” Jerusha plucked a strawberry from the bowl and bit into the luscious red fruit. “Oh, they are good.”

  “Grown in Ventura County. Picked this morning. I ought to know, I drove ’em down here.”

  “Is that where you’re from?” she asked. “Ventura County?”

  “Nah. I just drive a truck for my Uncle Walt. He owns this stall.” He gestured at the stacked boxes of produce around them. “I pick up loads of fruits and vegetables and bring them here to sell at the market. I stay with my uncle, too, in Chatsworth, out in the San Fernando Valley. But I’m originally from Oakhurst. You know where Oakhurst is?”

  “I should hope so,” Jerusha said. “It’s on the south end of the Mother Lode Highway. I’m from Jackson, farther north. But I live here now.”

  “So you’re a Los Angeles girl now. You sure are pretty,” he said, still holding the bowl
as he stared at her.

  Jerusha felt herself blush. She reached for another strawberry. He set down the bowl. She felt a little tingle as his fingers brushed her palm, picking up the strawberry hulls. He discarded them in a nearby box.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Jerusha Layne.”

  “I’m Ted Howard.” He stuck out his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Jerusha Layne. That’s a pretty name. Sounds old-fashioned.”

  “It’s a family name, passed on through the years. I have a great-aunt named Jerusha.” She shook his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, too.”

  “Jerusha,” he said, still holding her hand. “I’d sure like to buy you a cup of coffee.”

  “I’m...I’m here with someone.”

  “Don’t let me get in the way if you’ve got a better offer.” Pearl appeared at Jerusha’s side. She looked up at Ted and beamed. “Who’s this?”

  “Ted Howard.” He released Jerusha’s hand and shook Pearl’s. “From Oakhurst. But I live in Chatsworth now, with my uncle who owns this stall.”

  “Hello, Ted. I’m Pearl Bishop.” With a sidelong glance at Jerusha, Pearl chuckled. “I see you’ve already met Miss Jerusha Layne. I think you’ve made an impression on her.”

  “Pearl...” Jerusha felt her cheeks redden. She looked down at her hand, stained by the juice from the strawberries.

  “I hope so,” Ted said. “I hope she’ll go out with me. What do you two ladies do here in Los Angeles?”

  “We’re actresses,” Pearl said.

  “Wow. I never met an actress before,” Ted said. “And now I’ve met two. Would I have seen you in any movies?”

  “Maybe.” Jerusha tilted her head and looked up at him. “I was in The Women with Norma Shearer. I’ve been in lots of movies, and so has Pearl. I just finished a picture at RKO, called Suspicion.”

  “You say you’re living in Chatsworth,” Pearl told Ted. “I did a couple of Westerns that were filmed on location out there, at the Iverson Movie Ranch.”

  “Yeah, I know where that is,” Ted said.

  “I’m working on a picture at Paramount,” Pearl added. “With Veronica Lake and Joel McCrea, directed by Preston Sturges. They’re calling it Sullivan’s Travels.”

  “You ever work with that guy Frank Capra?” Ted asked. “I like his pictures. Lady for a Day, Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, and You Can’t Take It with You.”

  Jerusha shook her head. “Not me. I’d like to, though. I think he’s a good director.”

  “I had a bit in Mr. Smith Goes to Washington,” Pearl said. Ted looked mystified at the term. “We’re what they call bit players. That means you have to look really hard to see us on the screen.”

  “I’ve heard of extras,” he said, “but not bit players.”

  “We do bits,” Jerusha explained. “Small parts, a little bit of dialogue and action. Let’s say we’re making a movie about the Farmers Market, starring Norma Shearer as the woman searching for...”

  “Strawberries,” Pearl said, helping herself to a berry from the bowl. “With Tyrone Power as the young man in the produce stall.”

  Ted grinned. “Oh, I see Jimmy Stewart in that part. Or maybe Gary Cooper.”

  Jerusha laughed. “So the customer who keeps interrupting the stars while they’re trying to have a conversation—”

  “Flirting with one another.” Pearl winked at Ted.

  “The customer would be the bit player,” Jerusha finished.

  “I get it,” Ted said. “What about Uncle Walt?” He pointed a thumb at the older man who was walking toward them.

  “He could be a bit player,” Jerusha said. “Or a character actor.”

  “I see Frank McHugh in that role,” Pearl said, popping another strawberry into her mouth.

  “Too short.” Jerusha looked up at Uncle Walt, who was nearly as tall as his nephew. His hair was going gray, but it had a hint of red and he, too, had freckles on his weather-beaten face.

  Ted made the introductions, then he glanced at his uncle as he stepped out of the produce stall. “Hey, Walt. Is it okay if I buy these ladies a cuppa joe and some pie?”

  Walt smiled, nodding. “Go ahead. Take your time.”

  “I’m gonna amscray and let you two beat your gums,” Pearl said. “I see a fella I know down there who owes me five simoleons, and I’m gonna remind him.” She winked at Jerusha. “I’ll meet you at the car in about an hour.”

  “You know, I like that Pearl,” Ted said. He took Jerusha’s arm and escorted her to a stall where a woman was selling coffee and homemade pie. They shared a wedge of buttermilk pie and Ted asked if Jerusha was free for dinner.

  She shook her head. “I have a date tonight.”

  “How about tomorrow night?”

  “I don’t go out on Sunday nights. Particularly this Sunday. I’m auditioning for a part in a Fred Astaire picture on Monday. I have to work on my song-and-dance routine.”

  “How about coffee again, tomorrow afternoon?”

  She laughed. “You don’t take no for an answer.”

  “I’m not going to. You just name the place and the time, and I’ll be there.”

  She considered for a moment, then she nodded. “Okay. Coffee tomorrow afternoon. There’s a little café on the corner of Sunset and La Brea. I’ll meet you there at two.”

  She didn’t get the part in the Fred Astaire picture, You’ll Never Get Rich. But coffee with Ted led to lunch the following Saturday, and dinner the weekend after that. Jerusha enjoyed Ted Howard’s company. He was easy to talk with. He listened to her as she told him of all her dreams and aspirations, and he told her about his.

  “Some day I want to go to college, train to be a teacher,” he said one Saturday evening at the bungalow. Her other housemates were out on dates and Jerusha had cooked dinner for the two of them. “But I don’t have much money. I’ve been working ever since I was a kid. When I got out of high school back in ’thirty-five, I did some work in the north part of the state with the Civilian Conservation Corps. Last year I came down here to work for Uncle Walt.”

  “If you keep working for your uncle, maybe you could save some money and go to school.” Jerusha gathered up the plates and began washing them in the sink.

  Ted got up and grabbed a dish towel, drying the plates and cutlery as she stacked them in the drainer. “Maybe. I’m thinking about joining the Navy.”

  Jerusha stopped, a fork and the dishrag in midair. “The Navy? Why?”

  “Get out of California for a while, see the rest of the world.” He took the fork from her and dried it. “My older brother, Tim, he’s in the Navy. He joined up six years ago. He really likes it. He’s been all over the Far East. China, the Philippines, a place called Guam. Now he’s on one of those big battleships in Hawaii.”

  “My Uncle John was in the Philippines during the Insurrection, back at the turn of the century,” Jerusha said, rinsing the rest of the cutlery. “He was in the Army.”

  “Besides...” Ted frowned. “I think we’re going to wind up in this war.”

  “In Europe? You think it will spread?”

  “Yeah. Hitler needs taking down. And the Japs sure are making a lot of noise in the Pacific. What they’ve done in China, it’s just wrong.”

  “Yes, it is.” Jerusha nodded, remembering those horrible stories in the newspaper, about Nanking. “But it’s not our fight yet.”

  “It will be,” Ted said. “Sooner or later.”

  Jerusha shivered, as though something had crept up her back. She shook off the feeling and looked up at the man next to her. His presence warmed her. “I baked a pound cake. It should taste good with those strawberries you brought.”

  Chapter 7

  Grandma had written so many letters to Aunt Dulcie that there wasn’t enough time to read all them today. I had another appointment, in Santa Rosa, where Aunt Caro also had a collection of letters.

  I’d read Grandma’s correspondence through July of 1941, caught up in the blossoming romanc
e between Jerusha Layne and Ted Howard, charmed at my grandmother’s discovery of the man she would marry the following year. But that didn’t get me any closer to solving the mystery that had brought me here in the first place, my grandmother’s connection—if any existed at all—with Ralph Tarrant, the British-expatriate actor she was supposedly involved with before his murder.

  Not that I believed that for a minute. But still, I wanted to know. I had to know.

  I gathered up the letters I’d taken from the storage box labeled JERUSHA 1941 and put them back in chronological order. I set the lid on the box and stacked it with the rest, then I got to my feet and carried the storage boxes back to the walk-in closet, arranging them on the shelves.

  Dulcie had been dozing while I read. As I shut the closet door, she woke and rocked her chair back and forth with refreshed vigor. “I wonder,” she said.

  “About what?”

  “Jerusha’s roommates. Maybe one of them is still alive. It’s possible.”

  “I was wondering the same thing.”

  “There were two of them she kept in touch with after she got married and left Hollywood,” Dulcie said. “Anne and Pearl.”

  “Anne Hayes and Pearl Bishop.”

  “That’s right. They were the original roommates in that little bungalow they rented. Pearl had a car, I remember. Anyway, Anne, Pearl and Jerusha lived together for several years and they were good friends. There was always a fourth girl, though, to help with the rent. It seems to me there was a problem with one of them. Not paying her rent or being messy. Or maybe it was more serious.” Dulcie furrowed her brow, then shook her head. “I can’t remember. But Jerusha mentioned it in her letters.”

  “If they were having roommate problems, it’s not in anything I’ve read so far,” I said. “In addition to Anne and Pearl, I found names for two other roommates, Ellie Snyder and Mildred Peretti. When I get home I’ll look on the Internet to see if I can locate any information on those four names.”