Mismatched
"There is one thing infinitely more pathetic than to have lost the woman one is
in love with, and that is to have won her and found out how shallow she is."
—Oscar Wilde, In Conversation
Brain versus brawn is an expression that refers to man's mental acuity in contrast to his physical strength. We might add a third attribute to this pair and create an alliterative trio of desirable qualities: beauty. Thus, to be born with at least one of the three assets (brain, brawn or beauty) gives a person a distinct advantage in life. It was obvious from an early age that Clinton Murrow was lacking in physical strength and had no athletic ability. The lean youngster—many of his classmates described him as "skinny," "bony" or "puny"—eventually sprouted up into a tall, lanky young man. It was also apparent early on that he would never turn the girls' heads with his looks since he was downright homely.
What the socially awkward young man did have was a brain, one that would be the envy of Oz's Scarecrow. Given his superior intellect, he might have been a Nobel Prize winner like Marie Curie, Wilhelm Röntgen, Guglielmo Marconi and Albert Einstein. But although he got straight A's in chemistry, physics and biology in school, he never cared for science. He could not see himself cooped up in a laboratory all day with microscopes, test tubes and Bunsen burners. Perhaps if he had attended college in the 1970s, he might have become a pioneer in the nascent computer industry, and his name would be linked to the likes of Bill Gates, Steve Jobs and Steve Wozniak. Born in 1927, however, he got his liberal arts degree in 1948, decades before Microsoft and Apple were conceived.
His parents, both teachers, had high hopes that their gifted son would further his education by seeking advanced degrees and then enter the world of academia. Clinton had other ideas, though. He found the prospect of giving lectures to a hall full of students like those who had teased and taunted him during his younger days as distasteful as a career in scientific research.
"What do you plan on doing with your life, then?" Lyndon Murrow, his father, asked.
"I want to be a writer."
"You mean a reporter like Ernie Pyle?"
Lena, who was listening to the father-son conversation from the next room, grimaced. Pyle, a Pulitzer Prize-winning war correspondent, had been shot and killed during the Battle of Okinawa. Although the Second World War was now over, as a high school history teacher, she knew another conflict was most likely on the horizon and did not want her only child to be a casualty.
"No. I don't think I'd make a good journalist," the young man replied. "I'd much prefer to be a novelist like Hemingway."
"But how do you intend to support yourself financially? Even if you are one of the fortunate few who gets published, you wouldn't see any money coming in for some time."
"Don't worry, Dad. I've already been offered a job as an editor. I admit I don't really care for the idea of correcting other writers' grammar, but my salary will pay the bills. And it's a nine-to-five job, which gives me plenty of time in the evenings and on weekends to write."
Lyndon did not point out that if he became a teacher, he would have his evenings, weekends and the entire summer off to write. He knew from experience that teachers were not well paid. If his son failed to make it as an author, the editor job would at least provide him with a decent, steady paycheck.
Eight months later, Scribner's agreed to publish Clinton's first novel. By the time it appeared in the bookstores, Harry Truman had sent U.S. troops to South Korea, as Lena had feared would happen.
"Thank God our son didn't become a war correspondent!" she told her husband.
"Yes, and let's hope he doesn't get drafted."
By the time the Korean Conflict ended, the young Murrow had two more novels published. All three of his books were bestsellers. Once he was able to support himself with his royalties, he quit the editing job and devoted all his time to writing. Soon thereafter, the tall, gangly novelist was one of the most successful writers of his generation, well on his way to being included in the pantheon of American literary gods: Hawthorne, Twain, Fitzgerald, Hemingway and Steinbeck.
* * *
Three major watershed moments in American history were to occur during Clinton Murrow's lifetime, one of which, the September 11 terrorist attacks, had yet to happen. Another, December 7, 1941, the date Franklin D. Roosevelt predicted would live in infamy, occurred when he was fourteen years old. The last, November 22, 1963, took place when he was thirty-six. Although the death toll in Pearl Harbor (more than twenty-four hundred military personnel and civilians died) exceeded the body count in Dallas, Texas, (one man was killed—two if you include the murder of Patrolman J.D. Tippit), the assassination of John F. Kennedy had a far greater impact on the writer's life.
"I wonder if this is how people felt back in April of 1865 after Booth shot Lincoln," he mused, as he watched JFK's funeral on his RCA console TV.
Judy Dunninger, a nurse he had been seeing for the past five years, wiped tears from her eyes.
"It's so sad that those two young children now have no father," she whimpered and blew her nose with a Kleenex tissue. "My heart goes out to Jackie. To have her husband killed right before her eyes! And so soon after losing her baby, too. And poor Rose Kennedy. This is the third child she's lost."
"Don't go getting too emotional on me," he said.
"Excuse me for having compassion for a family that's just suffered a devastating loss."
Her comments seemed to illustrate the difference between the two of them. Clinton feared the murder of its president might throw the country into turmoil. Judy, on the other hand, saw only how it would affect his immediate family.
I see the big picture; she sees the small one, he concluded.
That was one of the reasons why he had never proposed to her. If he were to ever take that walk down the aisle, it would have to be with a woman he saw as his intellectual equal. He supposed it was foolish to expect Judy to view the assassination dispassionately and wonder about the political and social ramifications of Kennedy's death. After all, she was a woman who cried for three days when her pet goldfish died.
Roughly a decade earlier, sociologist Robert Francis Winch came to the conclusion that opposites attract, that people are drawn to mates because of their differences rather than their similarities. Oddly enough, it took the death of the president for Clinton to realize just how different he was from Judy and how utterly unsuited they were for each other.
Auspiciously, a week after Lyndon Johnson moved into the Oval Office, the writer received a phone call from Sergio Delaporte, a well-known Hollywood producer who had recently acquired the film rights to Clinton's first bestseller.
"I'd like you to write the screenplay," the producer announced.
Under normal circumstances, the author would never have considered the offer. He was a New Englander through and through and had no desire to live on the West Coast, even temporarily. However, in the wake of the Kennedy assassination, he began to question his future. There had to be more to life than sitting at his Underwood typewriter, immersing himself in a fictional world of his own creation. Thus, in a moment of self-doubt, he agreed to the producer's request. Two days later, he was on a plane heading to Los Angeles where, perversely, he would meet and fall in love with a woman who was even more unlike him than Judy Dunninger.
* * *
Hollywood's "trinity of blonde bombshells," a phrase coined by one of the newspaper tabloids, began with Jean Harlow, the famed platinum blonde. Marilyn Monroe eventually became the next fair-haired sex symbol after Harlow's untimely death at the age of twenty-six. Whereas there was an entire decade between Harlow's last movie (Saratoga) and Monroe's first (Dangerous Years), Colette Lavelle's acting career began in 1954, eight years before thirty-six-year-old Marilyn was found dead in her bedroom, the victim of an apparent suicide.
Little notice was taken of the thirteen-year-old newcomer when she made her film debut. This is not surprising since she spoke only three lines in the entire picture. No one suspected that the diminutive teenage brunette would blossom into a beauty. But by the time Marilyn's Some Like It Hot appeared in theaters, Colette was eighteen, had bleached her hair blond and developed an hourglass figure.
The following year, when Monroe appeared in Let's Make Love opposite Yves Montand, Colette had her first leading role, playing Martha Mansfield, the twenty-four-year-old silent film star who died of severe burns she sustained when her Civil War-era costume was ignited by a carelessly tossed match. Although critics had nothing good to say about Miss Lavelle's acting skills—or lack thereof—they agreed about the way she lit up the screen—no pun intended. Her next role was that of a scatterbrained secretary in a romantic comedy, and those same film critics called her a comedic genius, a Mae West of the Sixties. It was clear that her star was on the rise while Marilyn's was rapidly descending. Indeed, Monroe's next movie, The Misfits, was to be the last completed film of her career.
By the time Clinton Murrow arrived in Hollywood to begin work on the screenplay of his novel, Colette Lavelle was the highest-paid actress in the world.
"Are you Mr. Murrow?" a deep, gravelly voice asked when the writer got off the plane in L.A.
"Yeah. That's me," he confirmed.
"Sergio Delaporte asked me to pick you up and drive you to the studio."
"Don't I even get to check into my hotel first?"
"The boss didn't say nothing about stopping anywhere along the way."
The large, burly man, who had come west in hopes of having an acting career and appeared in only one gangster movie, had settled for being Delaporte's gopher instead. It was not a glamorous job, but the work was steady and the pay was good.
"Just let me get my luggage then."
"I'll take care of that for you."
When the car pulled onto the studio lot, Sergio came out of his office to greet his East Coast visitor.
"How was your flight?" the producer asked.
"Long," the writer replied. "I had hoped to go to the hotel and freshen up first, but ...."
"I had my secretary cancel your hotel reservation."
"Why?"
"I rented you a bungalow instead. It's quieter, so you'll be better able to concentrate on your writing."
"I assumed I would be working in an office here at the studio."
"We can arrange it if that's what you want. But I thought you'd prefer someplace more private. You know, this isn't a production line job. You won't have to punch a time clock or keep regular hours. All I ask is that you deliver the completed script when we're ready to begin filming."
"Sounds good to me. I have to admit I do my best work when I'm left alone. So, if you'll have your man take me to that bungalow, I can start writing."
"Good God! You're an eager beaver," Sergio laughed. "You just got here. The screenplay can wait until tomorrow. Let me show you around the studio first."
Clinton was unaware that his host had ulterior motives for giving him the star-studded grand tour. Murrow was a well-respected name in the literary world whereas Delaporte had a reputation for producing inferior "B" movies. Oh, sure, they made lots of money, but they had no artistic value. The producer hoped an association with Murrow would change that.
In the hopes of convincing the writer to remain in Hollywood, he introduced him to movie idols John Wayne, Cary Grant, Liz Taylor, Rock Hudson, Burt Lancaster, Debbie Reynolds and a host of other luminaries. Although Clinton would have preferred meeting his literary heroes—Charles Dickens, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Victor Hugo or F. Scott Fitzgerald, all of whom were deceased—he was dutifully impressed. Celebrities, it seemed to him, were the modern American aristocracy. (Hell, wasn't John Wayne known as the Duke?)
"Here's someone sure to knock your socks off," Sergio announced as he knocked on a dressing room door.
"Come on in, Serge," a voice called from inside.
Although his socks were still firmly on his feet, Clinton was taken aback by seeing the scantily clad actress who was struggling to fit into a skin-tight cocktail dress.
"Do you really expect me to move in this thing without busting the seams?"
"Colette, sweetheart, there's someone I'd like you to meet."
The actress looked up and saw that the producer was not alone.
"Please tell me that's not my new leading man!" she cried when she saw the novelist.
"This isn't an actor ...."
"Neither was the last guy you had me star with."
"This is Clinton Murrow."
"The author?"
"Yes. He's going to write the screenplay for my next movie."
Now it was Colette's turn to be impressed.
"Really? I've read several of your books," she lied.
"And I've seen several of your movies," he replied, tearing his eyes away from her chest to look at her face.
"Several, huh? Honey, if you've seen one, you've seen them all!"
"Now, now," the producer laughed. "This isn't the time to get into that."
"It's never the right time."
"Let's go, Clinton," the Delaporte suggested, regretting having stopped to introduce the writer to his temperamental star. "There are some more people I'd like you to meet."
"I sure hope the studio's paying you a ton of money," the actress called out as the two men walked down the hall. "They're not only going to ruin your book, but they're going to use you to do it."
"Always the comedian!" Sergio declared, forcing himself to laugh. "On screen and off."
* * *
Six weeks into the project, Clinton was already tired of butting heads with Hedley Herndon, the film's director, who seemed to find fault with everything he wrote. As the producer, Sergio was often called in to referee the arguments.
"He wants me to cut the entire fourth and fifth chapters of the book from the script," the writer complained. "And he wants to take two of the characters—Digby and Ursula—out of the story."
"All that unnecessary dialog will slow down the picture," the director explained. "And those are only minor characters. No one will miss them."
"I'm afraid he's right," Sergio said, agreeing with Hedley.
"You wanted to bring my book to the screen, didn't you?"
"Yes, but we can't have a ten-hour movie. We have to trim it down. That's why I wanted you to work with Hedley. You're an excellent writer, but he knows movies."
"I've won two Oscars for my directing," Herndon haughtily boasted.
"And I won a Pulitzer. So what?"
"Damn it!" the director angrily exclaimed. "Frank Borzage got to work with Fitzgerald. How is it I wind up with this guy?"
"All right, that's enough," Sergio said, assuming the role of peacemaker. "Clinton, please—for me—you need to make the cuts."
"If not," Hedley added, "we can find another writer who will. The studio owns the rights to your book; we can do what we want with it."
Reluctantly, the novelist gave in, but he saw his agreement as defeat, and it left a bad taste in his mouth.
I can't wait to get the hell out of this town and back to Connecticut where I belong.
It was while he was in this dismal frame of mind that he met Colette Lavelle for the second time. He was in his bungalow, sitting at his desk, typing on one of the studio's Smith Coronas (his cherished Underwood was back in New England) and hating himself for agreeing to accept Delaporte's offer. Herndon's demands had not ended with the removal of two chapters, Digby and Ursula. That was only the beginning. It seemed as though every other day, the director wanted major changes in the script, none of which the writer felt were necessary.
He had just inserted a sheet of bond paper into the typewriter and turned the platen when there was a knock on his door.
Oh, Christ! Not Hedley again!
When he opened the door and found Colette standing on the stoop, he was at a loss for words—an unusual occurrence considering his profession.
"What ...?" was the best he could manage.
"Isn't this Barnes & Noble?" she asked, holding up a copy of his latest novel. "I'm sorry. I thought they were holding a book signing today. Oh, well, since you're here, maybe you can sign it for me anyway."
"Won't you come in?" he finally managed to say.
"I hope I'm not disturbing you."
"No. I was just in the middle of committing homicide—that's all."
"Oh? Who were you killing?"
"Not who, what. I was murdering my book."
"Ah!" she said with an impish smile. "I warned you; didn't I?"
"Yes, you did."
"You should have run back east when you had the chance."
"Can I get you something to drink?" he asked, not used to playing host to a Hollywood star.
"I'll take a glass of red wine if you have any."
"So, did you really come over here to get your book signed?"
"What do you think?"
He thought she was coming on to him.
But how can that be possible? he wondered. She's America's reigning sex goddess, and I'm—no need to candy-coat it—an egghead, a hundred-pound weakling who is likely to get sand kicked in his face by the muscle-bound men who usually date such women.
However, when Colette put down her wine glass, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him, there was little doubt as to the purpose of her visit.
* * *
"You and Clinton Murrow?" Hedley Herndon asked Colette with disbelief when he saw the couple at a Hollywood party two weeks later. "You can't be serious!"
"Why are you so surprised?"
"Put your glasses on and take a good look at him."
"Hasn't anyone ever told you that looks aren't everything?"
"Yeah, and everyone who ever said that to me was good-looking. Just like all the millionaires tell poor people that money isn't everything."
"Clinton has an incredible mind."
"Inside an incredibly pathetic body."
Rather than defend the writer, Colette laughed at the director's joke. Secretly, she agreed with him.
"You don't fool me," Hedley said in a more serious vein. "You think that when he's finished with the screenplay he's working on, he'll write one for you."
"Are you suggesting I would use him to further my career?" she asked with mock indignation.
"Wouldn't you?"
"You're damned right I would!" she whispered. "I'm tired of playing a dumb blonde! I've been doing it since my second picture. I want a meaty role I can sink my teeth into."
"He may be a hotshot author, but he stinks as a screenwriter. If you're expecting filet mignon, don't be disappointed if he gives you a Nathan's frankfurter."
It was hardly surprising that Colette was the one to officially propose marriage, for she knew he would never find the courage to ask her. Despite being an intellectual genius, he was emotionally insecure because of the way he looked. Had she claimed to be madly in love with him—which she wasn't—he might not have taken her seriously. However, her proposal was more of a business proposition than a declaration of devotion.
"You and I can be one hell of a team!" she told him excitedly. "You can write the movies, and I'll star in them."
"I don't think I can write romantic comedies."
"I don't want you to. I'm tired of playing those corny roles. I want to become a serious actress. I've been taking acting lessons for years, but the studio has me typecast as the ditsy blonde, and they refuse to give me a chance."
Clinton imagined what their life would be like if they were to marry. For him, it would mean a permanent move to the West Coast. He could not picture Colette as a housewife, making meatloaf for Sunday dinner or doing her weekly grocery shopping at the A&P. Then he thought about what kind of life he would have if he married Judy Dunninger, who was the meatloaf-making, A&P-shopping type. She would be a good wife for him, no doubt. A woman like his mother. A friend and helpmate as well as a romantic partner. But he had no overwhelming desire to be with Judy, and since leaving Connecticut, he had not even missed her.
"Well? What do you think?" Colette asked, waiting for a response to her proposal.
His reply was not motivated by thinking but by feeling. Admittedly, he thought it was a terrible idea. However, his heart would not be denied.
The hell with logic! I love her. I worship the ground she walks on. If I never write another novel again, it's a sacrifice I'm willing to make just to be with her.
Suddenly, he saw himself as Edward VIII, willing to abdicate the throne to be with the woman he loved. He would gladly settle for being plain old David Windsor as long as he had Colette at his side as his Wallis Simpson.
"Well?" she repeated, growing impatient with his silence.
"I think it's a fantastic idea! Why don't we get married right away?" he suggested, fearing she might change her mind.
Rather than the usual gaudy Hollywood affair, the couple's wedding was a quiet ceremony with no guests invited. Just Clinton and Colette in front of a justice of the peace, with the man's wife serving as a witness. For the bride, it was her third trip down the aisle; for the groom, his first.
"Till death do us part," the writer vowed.
A few more words from the officiant, and it was over. They were married. Their honeymoon was brief: one week in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. When they returned to L.A., Colette pushed him to complete the screenplay of his novel.
"Who cares if it's good or not?" she asked. "Just get it done so that you can start on our project."
"Who cares? I do. My name is going to be on the finished product."
"I suppose you should do your best," she agreed after giving the matter some thought. "If this screenplay wins an Oscar, or even gets nominated, we can use that to our advantage."
Had he not been experiencing the euphoria of falling in love, Clinton might have found her selfishness galling. However, he was at that early stage in their marriage where he could find no fault in his bride. That would eventually change. Just as his recently purchased Shelby Cobra would lose its "new car smell," his favorable opinion of his wife would tarnish and lose its luster. He would come to see her for what she was: a narcissist who only pretended to care for him to further her career.
* * *
Trouble reared its ugly head once Clinton began working on the screenplay for his wife. Nothing he wrote seemed to please her.
"You know," he joked as he was nearing the halfway point in the script, "maybe you should have written this yourself."
"I probably would have done a much better job than you're doing, but no one would want to see a movie with my name listed as the writer."
If she had taken a hammer and struck him over the head, it would not have hurt as much as her criticism of his work. His initial reaction was to strike back, but he held his tongue. He loved her and had no desire to cause her pain.
I'm a novelist, not a screenwriter, he told himself. I have to cram into one or two scenes what I would normally take hundreds of pages to say in a book.
Unlike Hedley Herndon's requests, his wife's comments and suggestions were not meant to improve the quality of his film. The changes she requested in the script were meant to make her look good on the screen. If there was to be an Academy Award in their future, she wanted it to go to her, not her husband.
"Maybe I'll have Clint write my acceptance speech when I win the Oscar for best actress," she told Mac Baldrick, the young actor she had chosen to star opposite her in the film.
The choice of leading man had been a difficult one. The actor needed to be good-looking and have talent, but neither in too great a quantity that the audience's attention would be focused on him and not Colette. Since she was using her own money to produce the picture—technically, hers and Clinton's—she made all the decisions. Sadly, she was no better at producing than she was at acting.
Once the script was completed to her satisfaction, a copy was given to Hedley, the man she chose to direct the picture, not only for his skill and reputation but also because she had been having an on-and-off-again affair with him for the past eighteen months. Naturally, her husband was unaware of the relationship. Married less than a year, he lived under the delusion that his wife was faithful to him.
As the film's star and producer, Colette spent all her waking hours at the studio, micromanaging the production. But now that he was no longer working on the screenplay, there was nothing for Clinton to do with his time except oblige his wife or the director by making changes to the script. With an overabundance of free time on his hands, he began another novel.
This is what I want to do, he realized as he felt those creative juices coursing through his veins again. It's what I've always wanted to do.
The insecurity he felt since arriving in Hollywood began to fade away. He was finding the identity he left behind on the East Coast: that of a great writer. With his confidence returning, he began to feel a sense of longing. He missed his home in Connecticut. He missed his Underwood typewriter. He also missed Judy Dunninger.
"Don't be ridiculous!" he told himself. "You're married to the sexiest woman in America, if not the entire world. Why are you thinking about an old girlfriend?"
As days and weeks passed, those thoughts became more frequent. He would often close his eyes and imagine himself back in his old writing room. Since he could never bring himself to sell his Connecticut home, it now stood vacant, watched over by a caretaker.
Maybe once this picture is completed, Colette and I should spend a few weeks there. The autumn would be a good time, with the fall foliage at its peak. Or maybe the winter. I used to love reading in front of the fireplace while it snowed outside.
But what would his wife do in New England? There were no star-studded parties or movie premieres to attend and no high-end shops like those on Rodeo Drive. To remove her from her own environment would be like taking a fish out of water.
Maybe I'm not giving her enough credit, he thought guiltily.
The truth was, however, that he gave her more credit than she deserved. His first impression of her had been that of a warm-hearted, intelligent woman who was being taken advantage of by a powerful, money-hungry industry that treated women (and sometimes men) like commodities rather than people. Consequently, his love and physical desire for her had always been tinged with a little pity. But by the time of their first anniversary, he was beginning to see through the veneer at the woman beneath. She was not warm-hearted; she was cold, calculating and ruthless.
Much worse, as far as Clinton was concerned, his wife was not in the least bit intelligent. He tried to keep in mind Fitzgerald's opening lines of The Great Gatsby, wherein Nick Carraway says, "In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since. Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone, he told me, just remember that all the people in this world haven't had the advantages that you've had."
Colette had not come from a loving home as he had. The product of an adulterous affair, she was raised by a single mom who resented having her freedom curtailed by a child. Married for the first time when she was still a teenager, Marta (the actress' real name) never had an opportunity to finish high school, much less attend college. Yet there was a difference between intelligence and education. He had known many intelligent people who were not educated. Colette was not one of them. Nine months into their marriage, he had admitted she was "not very bright." Twelve months in, he considered her downright stupid. And to a man who was all brain and no brawn or beauty, it was a major shortcoming.
* * *
While her husband was making steady progress on his novel, Colette was finding producing and starring in her own movie daunting. Not only did she have daily battles with Herndon over his directing, but she frequently argued with her costar, Mac Baldrick. At one point, the young actor walked off the set and threatened to quit, but she managed to talk him into returning the next day. As for Clinton, he continued to accede to her demands for changes in the script without complaint.
What do I care about this screenplay? he asked himself, having already decided he would never write another one. I'm going to stick to writing novels from now on. If Colette wants to produce another movie after this one, she'll have to find someone else to write it.
He had yet to inform his wife of his decision since they rarely had the opportunity to talk anymore. She was up before dawn and left for the studio before he woke up. When she came home at the end of a long day, she was usually in a bad mood and wanted only to take a shower and go to bed. Although barely midway through the second year of their marriage, they were no longer a couple—just two ships passing in the night.
In the year 1965, Thanksgiving fell on November 25. Colette took advantage of the holiday by sleeping most of the day. Clinton, however, woke early to watch Macy's parade on television. Lorne Greene and Betty White hosted the three-hour annual event that included towering balloons, floats, marching bands and guest stars. As he watched the balloon handlers navigate the sixty-foot-long Dino the Dinosaur down the streets of New York, he recalled the Thanksgiving of 1963, the last one he had spent in Connecticut.
Kennedy's been dead for two years already, he thought, sipping his coffee.
The assassination of the thirty-fifth president had rocked America, and it had made Clinton question both his future and his relationship with Judy. That uncertainty had led him to accept Sergio Delaporte's offer and come to the West Coast.
Now, look at me! Living in sunny L.A., married to the world's sexiest actress and wishing I were back in Connecticut.
What happened next was no doubt a trick of fate. As Clinton walked into the kitchen to put his dirty coffee cup in the sink, the telephone rang. With caller ID years in the future, he had no idea who was on the other end of the line.
"Hello," he answered.
"Happy Thanksgiving."
His heart raced when he heard the familiar voice.
"Judy! Happy Thanksgiving to you, too."
"I hope you don't mind that I called."
"No, not at all. I'm glad you did," he assured her.
"I was watching the parade, and I thought about the time you and I drove to New York to see it."
"I remember that. We went to Radio City the next day to see the Christmas Spectacular. We had a lot of good times together you and me."
There was a brief silence as the two former lovers recalled their holiday weekend in Manhattan.
"So, what have you been up to lately?" Clinton finally asked.
"I was recently promoted to head of the hospital's nursing department. The promotion requires that I attend a training seminar at UCLA in two weeks. Maybe we can have lunch together."
"I'd like that a lot."
"Perhaps your wife will want to join us."
"She's busy making a movie. Besides, we have a lot of catching up to do. I'd just as soon Colette not come along. Our reminiscing would no doubt bore her."
For the next two weeks, Clinton eagerly awaited Judy's visit. When the day of their arranged lunch arrived, he felt like a teenager going on his first date. As he walked into the restaurant and saw his former girlfriend for the first time in two years, he was furious with himself for having left her to marry Colette.
"I'm sorry," he admitted after they placed their order.
"For what?"
"The way things ended between us."
Tears came to Judy's eyes, and he wanted to hold her and kiss them away. But it would not be fair to her. He was a married man, after all.
"I understand," she replied. "Really, I do. How could I ever compete with Colette Lavelle?"
It was a rhetorical question, but Clinton answered it anyway.
"It just so happens that if there were such a competition, you would win hands down. Only I was too blind to see it at the time."
Throughout their lunch—from the salad to the dessert and coffee—the writer aired his marital dirty laundry.
"Funny. It didn't even bother me when I learned she was sleeping with not only her leading man but also with the director," he confessed.
Judy commiserated with him, laying the blame for the failed marriage squarely on his wife's shoulders.
"Why don't you divorce her then? It seems to me you've got plenty of grounds."
"I wish it were that simple. Colette has all our money—hers and mine—tied up in this film. If I divorce her, I stand to lose everything. All my savings, possibly even the house in Connecticut."
"You are the most intelligent man I've ever known. How could you have done something so ... so ...?"
"Stupid? Go ahead and say it. It was stupid of me. But I was in love at the time, or at least I thought I was."
* * *
A week after Judy returned to Connecticut, a package was delivered to the Murrows' home. It was addressed to Colette. Although there was no return address, Clinton recognized the sender's handwriting.
"Why is Judy sending a package to my wife?"
Although burning with curiosity, he refused to open it. Tampering with someone else's mail was a federal crime, after all.
"You're not writing," Colette said with surprise when she returned home from the studio that night.
"I figured I'd take a break. There's mail for you on the kitchen table."
"It's probably just junk mail."
Almost all her correspondence was sent directly to her secretary, who distributed it to her manager, lawyer, accountant, fan club president or public relations consultant to handle. Only the occasional envelope or magazine was delivered to the house.
"It's a package," her husband explained.
"Who's it from?"
"I don't know. Why don't you open it and find out?"
"I'm exhausted! I want to get to sleep."
Clinton's heart sank. He desperately wanted to know what Judy had sent his wife.
"Why don't you open it for me?" Colette called from her bedroom.
He quickly tore off the brown wrapping paper and opened the box.
"It looks like some kind of face cream."
"It must be another free sample. I get them all the time. Just leave it on the table."
Why would Judy send Colette face cream?
Three days later, he learned the answer to his question.
Clinton woke that morning, as usual, to a quiet house and assumed his wife had already left for the studio. As he passed by her bedroom, he noticed her door was shut. This was not out of the ordinary; she frequently closed it on the way out. He was in the kitchen, eating breakfast and reading the newspaper when the phone rang.
"Where is she?" Hedley Herndon asked angrily when the writer answered.
"Colette?"
"Of course, Colette!" the director shouted, resorting to sarcasm in his fury. "You don’t have any other women living there. Do you?"
"At the studio, I assume."
"Well, you assume wrong. We've been waiting for her to show up for the past hour."
"Maybe she overslept. I'll go up to her room and check."
He put the phone receiver on the table and walked up the stairs. When he opened her bedroom door, he found his wife lying on the floor beside her bed.
"Colette?" he called. "Are you okay?"
There was no answer. The reigning blond bombshell, the sexiest actress in Hollywood, was dead.
* * *
The medical examiner ruled Colette Lavelle's death an accidental overdose. It was a natural conclusion considering her frequent use of both barbiturates and stimulants. Her death, although seen as a great tragedy by many, was a blessing to Clinton.
"We're shelving the picture," Hedley informed him after the funeral.
"It's just as well," the widower said. "I honestly don't think it would have brought Colette the Oscar she was hoping for."
"Are you going to stick around and write another screenplay?"
"No. I'm heading back east as soon as I settle my wife's affairs."
Between the sale of the house and the payoff from two insurance policies (one on Colette's life, the other on the movie production), Clinton left L.A. a richer man than when he arrived. He returned to his home in Connecticut, to his Underwood typewriter and to the life that had been interrupted in 1963.
After an appropriate mourning period, he and Judy Dunninger were married. They lived happily together long into their eighties. During those years, neither one ever spoke of the jar of face cream that had contained enough narcotics that, when absorbed through her skin, killed his first wife.
To think I once believed you and I were a mismatched couple, the aged writer mused as he stared down at his wife lying peacefully in her casket—just six weeks before he joined her in death. Now, I see we were alike in many ways. You had a hell of a brain in your head! Maybe greater than mine. After all, you were smart enough to commit the perfect murder and not get caught.
Salem, that blond wig did not make you a bombshell. (But you are as destructive as a bomb!)
