Silent Murders Read Free Page B

train tracks,” Miss Pickford said, shaking her head with the wonder of it. I was about to ask her what early roles she had played, when she said, “What sort of roles did you play?”
    “My first was Moses in the bulrushes, the second was Baby Jesus. After that I specialized in kidnapped-baby roles, caterwauling like the devil during chase scenes. When I got old enough to memorize lines, I played the brat in Ransom of Red Chief and scenes from Romeo and Juliet, that sort of thing.”
    She gave a knowing nod and smiled at the recollection. “I played Juliet myself. I milked that death scene for all it was worth!”
    “Juliet was my first death scene … they became something of a specialty for me: Juliet, Ophelia, Desdemona, Cleopatra—”
    Miss Pickford’s perfectly arched brows moved together in a slight frown. “Ophelia doesn’t have a death scene.”
    I waved my hand dismissively. “Yes, I know. Shakespeare missed a real opportunity there, so we added one. Audiences love death scenes and mine were pretty darn convincing. As I got older, I continued with the kiddie roles. It was what I knew best and my size let me get away with it. I learned the tricks of the trade from watching your pictures.”
    Miss Pickford smiled, putting her hand lightly on my arm, almost as if we were real friends. “And what tricks were those?”
    “Well, for one, to keep thin and flat-chested. And to make short, quick movements. Also, to add a skip to my step whenever possible. To accentuate my freckles and keep my fingernails short and unpolished. And of course, to keep my hair in long ringlets.”
    “But you’ve bobbed yours.” She sounded envious.
    “Just a couple months ago. I hated those curls!”
    “I loathe mine. So babyish! Now don’t you dare tell a soul I said that! Not a day goes by that I don’t wish I could cut my hair, but my public would think it a betrayal as bad as Benedict Arnold’s and would probably quit watching my pictures. I don’t dare risk it.”
    I was more than a little surprised at this confession. Like most people, I had supposed that “The Most Popular Girl in America” did whatever she wanted. Suddenly I saw how naïve that was. In some respects, Mary Pickford was a prisoner of her image.
    For a few minutes, we swapped recollections of night trains, dollar hotels, and boardinghouse food, until a waitress carrying a tray of champagne approached. I set my empty glass on the tray and picked up a full one. Miss Pickford glanced over her shoulder, then did the same, replacing her glass of orange juice with one of champagne.
    “Don’t tell Douglas,” she said with an exaggerated wink. “He disapproves of alcohol. Usually I try to accommodate him, but, well, sometimes I get tired of pleasing everyone else.”
    At that moment, her attention was drawn to someone behind me. I turned to see her younger sister, Lottie Pickford, making her way unsteadily toward us. Lottie wore a wild look as she clutched at Mary’s arm.
    “Lottie, what on earth—”
    “Can you—have you—” Her eyes darted around the room, frantically searching right and left.
    “Lottie, darling, I’d like you to meet…” But Lottie must have spotted the person she was looking for, because she stumbled toward the stairs without uttering another syllable. A few steps away, Douglas took in the entire scene. His well-disciplined actor’s features failed him for a moment and his eyes narrowed to dark slits. His lips tightened. With a jolt of surprise, I read disgust on his face. Clearly, Douglas despised his sister-in-law.
    “I’m sorry…” Miss Pickford began, but I waved off her apology.
    “I already know Lottie from Son of Zorro .” Lottie had a small but significant role in the picture as Lola, the pretty servant girl who serves as a spy in Don Fabrique’s employ and uncovers the blackmail plot. Lottie was usually late to work and often petulant, but no one dared reprimand the sister-in-law of Douglas Fairbanks. Only