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and stepped into the entry hall. A liveried waiter—­probably an out-­of-­work actor—­stood behind a makeshift bar just beyond the entrance to the dining room. Duane stepped over and pointed to a bottle of Chivas Regal, and the waiter filled a shot glass.
    Duane knocked back the drink. He winced at the burn as it went down. Relaxed a notch as heat flowed up his neck and into his face. He shook himself and aimed his camera up the broad winding staircase. These were the kind of stairs you’d expect to see a glamorous, formally dressed ­couple dancing down. The two figures who appeared at the top of the stairs were not Fred and Ginger, though those dresses could have been straight out of one of their films.
    Duane tightened the focus on what he thought at first were two young women striking a pose, their chins raised. Then he realized that the shorter one, the one with a reddish bouffant, had on an emerald-­green satin gown that was too long for her. The other one, tall and slender, wore a pale yellow cocktail dress with a high neck and full skirt that was too short. They were only kids, about the same age as his daughter, all tarted up to look like glamour girls.
    The redhead had to be Bunny Nichol’s daughter, Joelen. No longer six years old. Duane captured her mid-­descent, arm linked in her friend’s. Joelen must have inherited her auburn hair and the freckles that spattered across her face from her conveniently deceased father.
    The doorbell chimed and the girls started giggling and raced the rest of the way down the stairs, all semblance of maturity dashed. One of them left behind a gold high heel on the stairs. Cinderella’s slipper . The girl in yellow ran back and grabbed it, hopping up and down as she put it back on. Then she joined Joelen, who’d barely beat out a uniformed maid to open the door. Guests—­about a dozen strong—­surged into the entry hall.
    The girl in yellow hugged one of the men and the woman with him. Her parents, Duane surmised, overhearing the girl call the woman Mom . Not A-­list, Duane could tell—­no furs or conspicuous jewels.
    Joelen was greeting Rock Hudson and Doris Day, who’d come in together. Duane aimed his camera in their direction. Click. Rock had his arm around Doris—­Duane liked to think he was on a first-­name basis with the stars he most often photographed. He knew for a fact that “America’s most eligible bachelor” was the square-­jawed actor’s most successful role, but he’d never gotten a picture that proved he was anything but.
    The girls collected ladies’ fur coats and stoles—­completely unnecessary in the Southern California heat—­and staggered across the living room to the door at the far end. Duane followed, hanging back until they’d gone in and dumped the coats on a couch. He caught a shot of them checking themselves out and mugging in one of the gilt-­framed mirrors that hung on the wall of that room, too.
    When the doorbell chimed again and the girls skipped off, he slipped inside the room. This had to be Elenor Nichol’s office. A movie poster from Black Lace , the actress’s first major role, hung on the wall, a framed certificate beside it for her Academy Award nomination for best supporting actress. On the shelf below sat a row of blank-­faced mannequin heads, each wearing a wig of black hair styled in different lengths.
    Click. That would be another for his private collection. Duane edged closer to the desk. Correspondence was strewn across it. His heart kicked up a few beats. He was aiming his camera when he felt a hand grip his arm.
    â€œMr. Foley?”
    Duane recognized the short, heavyset man with salt-­and-­pepper eyebrows sprouting above sharp eyes. Sy Sterling was the entertainment attorney who was Elenor Nichol’s manager, and the man who’d hired Duane to immortalize this