ONCE MARILYN

BRENTWOOD, CA 10:05pm 

AUGUST 4^th, 1962

                A housekeeper is dressed in a light pink terry cloth robe is turning off the lights in a fashionable Spanish-style bungalow. She leaves a sliding glass door slightly open to let in a breeze.  She adjusts the magazines on the coffee table, clears the counter tops and picks up her mug of tea. She makes her way through the dark hallway and notices the glowing light coming from under the door of the master suite. As she approaches the door she notices that the cord of the telephone from another guest bedroom is making a path into the master suite and has been pulled under the door. The housekeeper puts her ear to the door to listen. There is a faint voice of another home’s owner. The owner, a woman, is speaking quietly but she tells the person on the other end of the phone line that she is tired and wants to go to sleep, and thanks them for calling during this hard time in her life.

The housekeeper, satisfied with what she hears, continues on her way to her the room she is staying in with her tea.

The clock in the front room clicks 11:52pm, the housekeeper turns the corner of the dark hallway tiptoeing in the shadows. It was quite. Just a welcomed breeze blowing through one of the windows in the living room that had she left open. The white sheer curtains blowing ever so slightly. She is making her way to the restroom that passes the master suite and on her way notices that the light in the room is still lit and the phone cord is still under the door. This was stranger to her. She again puts her ear to the door to listen but hears nothing. She moves her ear to different part of the door thinking perhaps that would help her hear better, still no sounds. She very gently tries to open the bedroom door, but it is locked. She knocks once…then twice….she knocks a third time. No answer.

She doesn’t know what to do, something inside of her is telling her that what she is seeing just isn’t right. The woman inside the bedroom would never stay up this late with the phone still in her room and not respond. She decides she needs to call the woman’s personal psychiatrist for help. The woman in the room has been through a series a very traumatic situations in the last few weeks and was in a fragile state.  She tiptoes to a different extension and dials the doctor.

“Dr. Greenson? I’m sorry for the late call. It’s Eunice. ……….yes. Something isn’t right. Her bedroom light is on but she won’t answer my call at the door.” Eunice, a soft spoken housekeeper explained.

Eunice does as the doctor instructions: she goes outside to the front of the house where there are a set of French windows and peers into the master suite. She then comes back into the house and runs over to the fireplaces and retrieves a poker. She goes back outside and with the poker, through the metal grill that is attached to the window pulls back the sheer white curtain to reveal the body of super star Marilyn Monroe naked and unresponsive. The phone still tightly gripped in one of her hands, a safe and a drawer in the desk to the left ajar.  

Eunice gasps and covers her mouth at the sight. She calls to Marilyn but there is no response. She hears something off in the distance towards the front gates, a rustling in the bushes, she turned and see’s a shadowy figure moving.  Nervously Eunice looks around to make sure no one has seen what she has then quickly runs back into the home and picks up the phone where Dr. Greenson awaits.

“Doctor! Come quick!!!!”

WEST HOLLYWOOD, CA
July 1972

                 

It was the warmest summer I had ever remembered it being. I got myself out of bed that morning drenched in sweat, sticking to my sheets like gum to pavement. A shower, a quick cool breakfast of fruit and I was in my car before the taste of grapes was out of my mouth, battling my piece of shit Ford to start. I could feel the sweat dripping down my dark brown sideburns like small little rivers as I turned the key of my ignition over and over again.

Here I was, a low on the totem pole columnist at The Los Angeles Times, praying I could catch a cab in time to make the meeting with my editor who I told on Friday as I left work that I needed to see him first thing Monday morning. I had a special story that I wanted to work on. I wanted to be able to devote a lot of time to it and needed his approval. How could he say no? This was one of this biggest stories of the last 10 years and I just felt he would eat it up. I had only been at The Times for less than two years since I moved here from San Francisco, so I had a lot to prove.

The LA Times building was this old Art Deco tiered building that stood tall enough that you had to squint to see its highest part but short enough that the surrounding more modern downtown high-rises dwarfed it by significantly. I tossed a $10 bill into my cab and swished around the front of the car dashing into the bustling Times lobby squeezing my way through the irritated crowed trying desperately like me to catch the next elevator up. I caught a glimpse of myself in a bronze panel inside the elevator, tiny sweat drops were already making their way through my powder blue button up shirt like little drops of ink bubbling up from underneath so I stopped in the men’s room down the hall from my Editor David Powell’s office to blow air on my sweat speckled shirt.  I literally had 3 seconds before I was 12 minutes late. I hated the feeling of not only being late but being later than the normal 5 or 10 minutes. It just felt worse.

I dashed down the hall and knocked on his office door. No answer. I knocked again and this time the door opened, and there was Dave Powell. Tall bald and sweating just like I was. His white shirt was unbuttoned at the neck, his tie thrown on the seat of a chair on the other side of the room, his pants wrinkled from sitting in his hot office. He looked frazzled and damp. I could relate.

“It’s too fucking hot Peter! Too fucking hot. Come in!” Powell said with his hands on his hips.

“Morning, sorry I’m late. I had car trouble.” I said closing the door behind me as Powell opened up a window.

“No, let’s leave it open I was on a phone call and had to close everything up to hear, it was long distance. You’d think if we could put a man on the moon we could also get clear reception from the Sudan.” Powell said of one of his reporters calls from some military coup in Northern Africa. “Have a seat.”

I looked down at the chair. Leather. A leather office chair in a room without cool flowing air in the middle of the summer in a heat wave.  My northern California sensitivity about the heat must have seeped out because Powell noticed.

“Just sit down Peter.” He said as he pulled up a file out and placed it on his messy paper littered desk. “That’s for you.” He added, sliding it across the desk as a trails of documents fluttered under the manila fold.

I opened it and saw tons of photos and article clippings of old interviews from August 1962 about the death of Marilyn Monroe. I riffled through them and glanced but had no idea what he wanted me to do with them.

“Monroe? How did you know?” I questioned pulling out an old 20^th Century Fox head shot of the starlet.

“Do you know what next month will be? Because I do!” Powell asked.

“Yes!” I responded excitedly.

“It’ll be 10 years since her death. Ten! And I want you to cover it.” My editor said sitting back fanning himself with stray papers off his desk.

“This is exactly what I wanted to talk to you about. I really want to dive right in, but I don’t know how long it’ll take me to get things started.” I said looking again at the photos of Marilyn.

                “I can tell you’re seeing the juice of this story here Peter. There’s a lot more to Monroe’s death then just a sad pretty movie star taking too many pills one night and never waking up. You can start by reading all those interviews and bios, there’s the meat. A lot of people on the inside don’t think she offed herself you know. There are all these conspiracy theories and I want that to be your whole angle …” he paused then leaned in from his chair, that creaked a long crackling sound like the floor boards of a haunted house to tell me “…there’s a lot to go off of and its pretty great stuff, stuff only good writers could write. Like you! Start with the interview with Strasberg, Marilyn’s last acting coach.” he said smiling.

“Listen, David, I really appreciate you thinking of me for this but I have to admit, I’m a little apprehensive too, do people still care?” I asked, again dabbing the sweat beads from my forehead.

“Don’t give it a second though kid, people care! There are tons of conspiracy theories and stories of foul play. I honestly don’t know how long it’ll take you to write something up, my guess you could look at this and give me some half assed article in a week, two tops. And you know what, maybe you should, but I promise you, once you read what’s in those old papers that I pulled up for you, you won’t wanna take a short trip through memory lane with old Monroe, you’ll want to dig in deep. Find the pulse of this beast then slit its throat! And uh…that can take a while.”

Powell was sweating again too, and this time it wasn’t because of the heat. His excitement always brought bouts of excess sweat, even in the dead of winter if a hot story crossed his path, he’d breakout out in sweaty fits like it was the fourth of July.

I picked up all the photos and paperwork and placed them back into the folder he handed me and got up to go to my desk not before Powell stopped me.

                “Hey uh, that’s not all. There’s the rest of it!” Powell said pointing to two boxes marked “MM” with various dates scribbled on the side of reporter’s logs. I closed my eyes and took a breath. What the hell was I getting myself into?

Powell’s secretary Margo helped me bring all the boxes and papers to my desk where two of the Sports reporters, Jim Calhoon and Ronnie McGee were waiting for me. Jim biting down on a pencil that had more teeth marks then yellow paint grinned and watched Margo and I place the boxes down.

“Oh boy! Powell’s brought out the double M boxes eh? You know he’s had this planned for a long time, can’t believe you’re the schmuk he’s pawned this on.” Calhoon said with smile.

“What do you mean? You knew about this?” I asked as Margo scurried away.

“You kidding? You didn’t? How long ya been here Pete? This is something Powell’s been itching to do. I even think it was a story he had for himself before he made editor. Listen, it sounds like a fucking wild goose chase, but, it’s a goddamn gift too if you ask me. Which you didn’t! But…I’m telling you.” McGee quipped.

“How is this a gift?” I wondered out loud, but I knew it was. The research was practically done for me.

“Just go through all that horse shit and read. You know how to ready big guy? Right? Put the puzzle pieces together and –bam—you gotta story!” McGee added.

“So you two actually think there’s some kind of story mixed in here? I mean, I think so!” I asked.

“Fuck yes! Even if they’re buncha lies and pretend. At least you have some kind of juicy Hollywood gold here. And hey, who knows, you might just break some kind of new story. ‘MONROE DEAD FOR SURE’!!!!!” Calhoon said in a mocking tone.

The rest of the afternoon I went through reporter log after reporter log, note after note, old lead after old lead covering everything from Monroe’s highs and her lows all leading up to a very interesting twist of rumors involving the mob, the Kennedys and her death. All of it speculation and rumor and something a tabloid would cook up which is probably why The Times never ran with any of it in the first place. There were so many names to search through. Friends, colleagues, people who may or may not have anything to do with Marilyn at the time. Even a supposed number for 

Jacqueline Onassis that I was very tempted to call just to hear her whispery voice say anything at all. I found myself reading quotes and interviews of some of the most famous people ever…and it was a very overwhelming feeling. Had I bitten off more than I could chew?

 Later I found the small interview with Paula Strasberg that an LA Times reporter had done three months after Marilyn’s death. Paula was the acting coach David mentioned when we spoke. She of course spoke highly of Marilyn as most were doing at the time of her demise, but had one very interesting thing to say: Paula felt that someone, somewhere was hiding a secret about Marilyn but didn’t explain what it was, I found it very interesting coming from Paula who, from other details in the reports, had not spoken to Marilyn in public for years. So what was the big secret? The only way I could find out was to give her a call. So I dialed the number scribbled on the 9 year old paper and hoped for Paula to clarify.

“Yes, hello, is this Mrs. Strasberg?” The person on the other end was muffled. “Hello? Yes. Mrs. Strasberg?”

“I’m sorry. No. This is her daughter. Who is this?”

“Oh, uh, hi, yeah, umm… my name is Peter Kyle from The Los Angeles Times. I was wondering if I could speak with your mother. I’m writing a story on the, um…I’m writing a story on the anniversary of Marilyn Monroe’s passing and I wanted to see if she was available to talk. Is she? This week maybe?” I said awkwardly stammering through an uncomfortable situation.

“Mr. Kyle, you must have some very bad sources.” Paula’s daughter said.

“I’m sorry?” I asked in a way for her to clarify.

“My mother died six years ago Mr. Kyle. And unless you’re interested in some kind of séance I don’t think you’ll be getting any kind of quote from her. Marilyn, I hear, loves a good séance.”

“Oh God!” I said out loud—again awkwardly disappointed that I wouldn’t get a quote from Paula. “I mean, I’m very sorry for your loss Miss…?”

“Susan.” She replied.

“I’m very sorry for your loss Susan.”

“What exactly are you writing about?” She questioned.

I didn’t how to answer that as I was hoping that speaking with Paula would give me some sort of direction to work off of but, nothing, I had nothing and so I figured I’d just be honest.

“Um, well that’s a very good question. I was hoping that speaking with your mother would sort of, uh, I don’t know, inspire me I guess on which way I should go.” I explained.

“My mother loved Marilyn very much. Despite what people wanted to see or believe. She really did love her. Listen, there’s a small apartment over on Ocean Drive, that’s where I think you should start.” Susan said.

“Oh? And who …”

“Eunice Murray. Ask for Eunice.” Susan said interrupting my next and obvious question.

Eunice Murray! That name was familiar too as Susan started to give me the address over the phone I shifted through the hundreds of papers on my desk for a list I had made of all the viable characters I needed to find and interview. And there it was #2 on the list Eunice Murray, Marilyn’s mysterious housekeeper and the last person to see Marilyn alive.

 “Thank you, I appreciate this.” I said circling Eunice’s name over and over again.

“You’re welcome. And, Mr. Kyle, good luck.”

Susan gave me the address I needed to look into and ended our call. I dove into studying just what this Eunice person had to do with the whole picture.

I looked through all the files that were about Eunice for hours and hours. Everything from Eunice’s past jobs right up to her relationship with Marilyn. I could see why there was so much interest in her and why she was the first name out of Susan’s mouth.

There were whispers that Eunice had a hand in Marilyn’s shady death, but no one really could corroborate or validate any of the rumors. Was it some sort of assisted suicide or something much more underhanded? It was back to the drawing board and that secret Paula thought was being hidden that now, somehow involved Eunice.

I continued to sort through Paula’s account and memories and she mentioned that she had read that Eunice had called Marilyn’s private psychiatrist Dr. Ralph Greenson when she discovered Marilyn’s body to come over to the house. Unfortunately the doctor and Paula were dead, so I had no choice but to track down this Eunice woman as Susan suggested and get the information I needed.

I grabbed all my papers and notes and smashed them into my bag and scurried to the elevators.

“Hey! Where you off to?” McGee said walking around the corner with a fresh cup of coffee.

“To see a maid!” I said tucking my shirt back into my pants.

I didn’t know why but all of a sudden I had the electricity running through me. Excitement! At first I wanted no part in dealing with anyone surrounding the ghost of Marilyn Monroe, but the more I delved into the story, the more I could see that maybe there was actually something to it.

My cab pulled up to the bright white apartment complex on 4890 Ocean Drive. I stepped out and looked around. I stepped on to the front lawn and peered into small square cut outs in the white wall into the apartment’s court yard that had a bright blue pool. The whole place looked like it was from a travel magazine featuring a beautiful beach bungalow in Santorini. So much blue and white. I stepped off the lawn and walked over to the very ornate iron gate that was left wide open and pulled out the scrap of paper with Eunice’s supposed address on it. For all I knew Eunice, who at this point would be a little over 70 years and I didn’t know if she were alive or dead. 

I slowly walked into the complex and looked up at the apartments above me, Eunice’s apartment was #25, an upstairs unit. I counted from below 20……21…..22…

“Looking for something?” A woman’s voice said coming from one of the deck chairs at the side of the pool. I had not noticed her.

“Oh, afternoon. I’m Peter Kyle. Im looking for a neighbor of yours.” I said walking up to the woman who was ready Variety and extended my hand.

“Yeah? Which one?” she said pulling her sun glasses down and shaking my hand. She was a very beautiful brunette with hazel eyes. Her smile was bright and fresh. Her hair tosses back in a carefully curled ponytail she was dresses in a one-piece black bathing suit that had small little cut outs on the hips.

“A Mrs. Eunice Murray.” I said looking back up to the apartments on the second floor for #25.

“AH! Is it that time of the year again?” The woman said smirking and looking back down at her Variety.

“Pardon?” I asked.

“Do you think you’re the only one interested in her this time of year? Mrs. Murray gets very popular at the beginning of every August. She’s in 25.” The woman said still with her sarcastic grin and pointed to the top of the left corner of the complex.

“I take it she’s a busy lady then. Have you seen her today?” I asked.

“Yes, actually. This morning. You’re in luck. Listen, she’s a nice older lady, ok? Be nice to her.” The woman said packing up her belongs by the pool.

“Of course. I…look, I just want to ask her some questions, that’s all. I need her to confirm some things I’ve been researching.” I explained.

“Are you a cop?” The woman said turning to me and still packing her bag with magazines.

“No. A reporter. I work for The Times.”

The woman raised an eye brow and shook her head then placed her white and blue striped towel that matched the entire blue and white Santorini inspired complex over her left shoulder.

“What? Why are you shaking your head?” I asked, noticing her annoyance to my answer that I was a reporter.

“I have this love hate relationship with reporters. Its not your fault. Anyway, it was nice to meet you Peter Kyle.” She said as she started to make her way back to her own apartment.

“Hey! I didn’t catch your name!” I said.

The beautiful brunette by the pool turned around and lowered her sun glasses once again and smiled one of those very Hollywood smiles, one that could have been on the cover of any fashion magazine. Her body slightly turned to me, her bag, a whicker woven beach bag lifted over her right shoulder.

“Victoria Russ.”

Vicky Russ!! Vicky fucking Russ!! She was the daughter of a mega-movie producer who partied and slept with some of the biggest names in Hollywood. She even dabbled in acting a bit herself. How did I not recognize her? Vicky Fucking Russ!!

I must have stood by that pool completely star struck with no one around for what seemed like 10 minutes. Then as soon as I realized Vicky was probably watching me (and laughing) from her window I snapped out of and headed to Eunice’s apartment. I bounced up the stone steps and to her door, the only one in the left corner of the complex. From the outside it seemed like a roomy place. All four of the corner apartments, like Eunice’s, like Vicky’s, seemed to be the larger units. More expensive of course. I teetered around the front door not knowing how I should play this. Should I just knock and ask her if she has any comments? This was a 70 year old woman that I didn’t really want to upset. So I knocked and just went with whatever would come out of my mouth first.

No answer.

I knocked again. And looked into the front window trying to make sense of anything moving through the white curtains.

No answer.

I knocked twice more. This time someone came to the door.

“Hello, Mrs. Murray?” I asked the white haired goggle-eyed lady on the other side of the screen door.

“Yes?” the sweet soft voice of a grandmother replied.

“Hi, my name is Peter, Peter Kyle. I’m with The LA Times, and I was wondering if I could have a moment of your time.” I said extending her my hand and business card.

“Oh. Hello. Mr. Kyle is it? Yes. Umm…please come in.” she said unlocking the screen door that was between us.

Eunice was gray haired and older, but she didn’t look frail. Her body still strong and firm compared to other 70 year olds that I knew. Which weren’t many, but this was Los Angeles. Age 70 here was like 50 anywhere else in the world. She was dressed in a flowery dressing gown and some comfortable house slippers, even though her body looked younger, her fashion screamed old.

I walked in behind her and she brought me over to a very well lit, well decorated sitting room right in the front. The carpets and furniture were all white, pure and clean. She fluffed a white throw pillow on one of the couches and extended her hand inviting me to sit. As I sat I noticed photos of family all around. And then there, right on the coffee table a photo of her and the one person this whole thing was about. Marilyn Monroe.

“Beautiful isn’t she?” Eunice said with a warm smile, noticing that I had taken notice to the photo of her and Marilyn.

“She was yes. I guess you know why I’m here Mrs. Murray. In a few days it’ll be the 10^th anniversary of Marilyn’s death and I’ve been given the opportunity to cover it. Your name came up on a list of people I should interview. Can I ask you a few questions?” I asked.

“About Marilyn? Of course. What would you like to know first?” She said crossing her feet at the ankles.

 “Right. So, the night Marilyn died, I read in some notes and articles her doctor came shortly after you called him and the two of you called the authorities four hours later. Do you remember why it took that long?”

Eunice squinted at me, the kind of squint a mother gives her child when she wants to convey her displeasure without anyone around knowing. In that moment she realized this wasn’t going to be the same sort of soft nostalgic piece where she would be able to gush over her relationship with Monroe like she had done a million times and that I was there to get right down to business. She didn’t seem to like that, not one bit.

“Mr. Kyle, I appreciate that you came all the way down here to see me and to ask me questions about something that happened all those years ago, but I am pretty sure that the answer to that question can be found in the same notes you’ve been reading.” Eunice said references the notes I had mentioned. She had been asked the same question for 10 years. She was done answering.

“Mrs. Murray it’s important that I corroborate facts from a decade of notes. I just want to make sure I have it all correct. And you’re right, the notes said that Dr. Greenson took that time to get permission for the studio to call the police. Is that right?” I said giving into her obvious discomfort with the whole line of questioning.

“I believe that’s right.” Eunice said shortly.

“Right. Well,” I said taking a deep sigh now recognizing this wasn’t going to be as easy as I thought. 

“What did Marilyn like to eat on her days off?” I said adding a fluff question to ease the tension.

“She wasn’t much of an eater, you see, she was under a lot of pressure, so on her days off she studied scripts or slept. Not much else. She was so hard on herself. But she loved what she did.” Eunice responded now back in her regular 70 year old sweet old lady tone.

“Did she seem happy the night she died?” I asked.

“She seemed…. herself, yes.” Eunice said after a brief pause to think.

“What do you think of all the theories about her death, even some that involve you?” I quizzed her.

“Well they’re nonsense. It was a terrible and frightening thing that happened, and I don’t know anyone who wanted Marilyn dead. She died accidently. That I know for sure.” Mrs. Murray responded frankly.

“How do you know for sure?” I asked.

Eunice opened her mouth to speak but then stopped with her mouth open. What she had planned to say didn’t come out. She literally had to stop and think about that answer. She then took a gulp and looked me dead in the eye.

“After 10 years Mr. Kyle, maybe I don’t know for sure. You’re right.”

“Can you recall anything else that seemed odd about that night? Something that seemed strange to you?” I asked.

“Yes! You must have seen it in your notes. I’ve stated it over and over again. I went to bed shortly after 10 that night, but when I woke up around midnight to use the restroom I noticed Marilyn’s light was on—her bedroom light—and the phone cord was coming out from underneath the door. She never did this so late in the night. Never. That alarmed me.” Eunice explained.

“Do you recall her getting a phone call that night?” I wondered.

“Just earlier that night. Peter Lawford—the actor—he was the last call. Around 8pm, and then again around 10, just before I went to sleep on the other extension. He and I spoke and I said everything was fine.”

“So you spoke with Peter Lawford? That’s not in the reports.” I said in a shocked tone writing down everything she was saying.

“Isnt it? I told detectives Mr. Kyle. I told them everything.” She explained.

I nodded then noticed the time so I started to pack up my things. It was clear I had to somehow get an interview with Peter Lawford, one of the most famous men in the country and a member of the Kennedy Family. No small feat for a pesky reporter from The Los Angeles Times. But he loved Marilyn. They were so close, maybe I could convince him that this would be some sort of closing chapter piece to the whole Monroe soap opera.

“Thank you again for your time Mrs. Murray. If you’d like, I’ll send you a little note right before my column on Marilyn is published.” I said standing up and shaking her hand. She seemed pleased by that.

Eunice stood up and fixed the wrinkles in the front of her of her dressing gown.

“Thank you.” She said quietly as she showed me out.

I made my way down her stone steps keeping my eyes down from the glare of the bright light coming from the reflection of the white walls of the apartment complex. I crept around the pool heard a voice from above.

“You didn’t piss her off, did you?” Vicky said standing on her veranda smoking a cigarette still in her bathing suit but this time covered in a white sheer cover with black ties around her waist.

“What? No! I didn’t. At least I don’t think I did.” I said looking up at Vicky with my hand over my eyes to block out the bright sun.

“She’s sweet, but she’s tough. The last guy that came here asking about Marilyn Monroe left with a stomach fool of chocolate chip cookies and a frown on his face. She gave him nothing but a tooth ache.” Vicky said taking a puff.

I smirked and give her a nervous salute and started my way towards the giant gates to catch a cab and again from her perch Vicky asked: “So what’s next huh?”

“What do you mean?” I Asked turning back to answer her.

“I dunno. I never know the outcome of these things. Every time reporters come out here to ask Eunice questions, we only end up reading about it. I guess the process interests me. So what do you do next?” She said crossing her arms over the veranda.

“Well, I go back to the office and figure out my next interview to piece together what I found here. It’s a doozy.” I said feeling the daunting task I knew was a head of me. Then I sort of whispered to myself “Peter Lawford.”

“What did you say? Lawford? Peter Lawford?” Vicky said shooting straight up.

“Yeah, Mrs. Murray said something about him so now I have to figure out how I’m going to get an interview with a Kennedy. You wouldn’t happen to have it good with any Kennedy’s would you?” I said jokingly expecting her to kindly smirk again and finally say good bye.

“Peter Lawford is my god father. You want an interview? I can get you an interview.” She said putting her sun glasses back on.

“Are you serious? How Soon?” I said making my way closer to stone steps that lead up to Vicky’s apartment.

“I’ll have to call him up and see when he’s available. So why don’t you give me the number I can reach you at so that once it’s set up I’ll give you a time and place and you’ll just show up. How’s that?” Vicky said meeting me half way down the steps of her apartment.

“That—that would be…oh Miss Russ that would be AMAZING!” I said excitedly stuttering through my sentence and hurriedly scribbling my home phone number on a scrap of paper I ripped out one of my note pads.

“Great. Expect a call.” She said as she floated up back to her apartment door.

“Wait!” I called. “I wasn’t born yesterday. What’s in it for you?” I said expecting that such a larger favor would carry a large price tag that came with it. “This is LA, nothing is free.” I added

Vicky turned around and thought for a second. She walked back to the top of the stairs gripped her hands on the iron rails that curled up the stone staircase like a black iron spine and just looked at me and winked. She cupped the paper with number in her hand and turned and walked into her apartment. Something told me this was going to be one expensive favor.

Late that night I sorted through more and more old news reports of Marilyn’s death and read interviews with the LA County Coroner, Dr. Greenson, and more of Eunice’s accounts of that night. There were some small inconsistences but for the most part Eunice and Dr. Greenson’s stories 

matched. So I started to write a little of the beginning of my column. Most of the time these types of pieces started with a quick back story, so I typed up an quick synopsis of her rise to fame, checked off a few of her major movie rolls, her marriages, so on and so on.

I scanned over at some more of the hundreds of notes and noticed someone had told a reporter that there were things missing from a safe in Marilyn’s house. This was surprising to me as no one had ever mention it before and before I could pick up the papers to see who said it the my phone rang.

“Hello? …David! How’s it going?” I said to my editor on the other end.

“Good, sorry I missed you when you got back to the office. Did you find Murray?” he asked.

“I did, yes. It went great! Listen I might get an interview with Peter Lawford!”

“Peter Lawford? Why?” David asked perplexed.

“Eunice thinks Peter was the last person Marilyn spoke to the night she died. I thought it would be interesting to find out what they talked about.” I explained.

“So! You found the meat I was talkin’ about huh? Good. Say—how did you lock down Lawford?” My editor asked in a happy tone.

“Funny thing, at the apartment complex where Eunice lives,” I said as I picked up a publicity shot of Marilyn to look at “I ran into his goddaughter, seriously. Something is telling me this was the right story for me.”

“Let me get this right, Peter Lawford’s god-daughter just so happens to live next door to Eunice Murray, Marilyn Monroe’s housekeeper?” David asked skeptically as he lit a cigarette.

“Not only is she his god-daughter and is getting me an interview, but she’s Victoria Russ. The actress.” I said putting away some of the papers back into the box.

“Interesting.” David continued. “Well, however the hell you pulled this off I guess isn’t really the point, anyway, so get back to me on what Lawford says ok?”

“Sounds good.” I said and hung up the phone.

The next morning I was stirring a cup of coffee when I noticed a very large black car pull up in front of my apartment. For a moment there was no movement but then a large man in a sharp suit emerged from the vehicle and walked up the front path and into my complex. He was hidden from view as he walked in but then there was a knock on my door. It was odd, but there were butterflies in my stomach. I had no idea, but as soon as I saw that car pull up I sort of knew he was here for me. I walked over to my door and peeked out into the peep hole. He was very very big. I took a gulp of air a fixed my shirt and opened the door.

“Kyle? Peter Kyle?” The large man asked.

“Uh, yeah. What can I do for you?” I responded.

“Mr. Lawford sent me to pick up you. Will you be ready in 10 min?” The man asked.

“Oh! Um…I was expecting a phone call not---

“10 minutes. I’ll be in the car.”

He walked back to his car and I quickly grabbed the huge stack of papers of research from the boxes David had given me and threw them into my bag, took a sip of my coffee that I wouldn’t be able to finish and dashed out to meet the large man. He had already opened the back door of the car and was waiting next to it for me to sit. I quickly sat down and he quickly shut the door. He then returned to the driver seat we drove off.

The drive from my apartment in West Hollywood to Peter Lawford’s home was a good 2 hours. I thought we’d end up in Beverly Hills, or Bel-Aire but I was wrong. The driver didn’t tell me at all where we were going, the whole time I sat quietly until I realized by the signs on the free-way that we were headed to Palm Springs.

We pulled up to a very large gate inside the city. The driver typed in a code and the gate opened up to a one of the most beautiful landscaped pieces of property I had ever seen in my entire life. It looked like a resort. The grass was the greenest grass, the trees were the tallest and the house, the house was magnificent from the outside and it got more beautiful as we got closer. It was a one story sprawling home with glass all around. I could see directly into the home as we parked out front but I didn’t see a single soul around.

The driver opened my car door and ushered me into the gorgeous mansion that was even more beautiful within, decorated in grays and whites. I noticed a housekeeper in a pale blue uniform filling several crystal vases with flowers. Another was in the living room fluffing the white pillows on the equally white sofa. With all my observing I hadn’t the driver disappear. He left me in the foyer to myself. As if to say ‘take it all in pal, you’ll never see this again’. I waited and looked around some more then heard footsteps from behind me, it was the driver fetching me.

“This way.” He said extending his hand into a cool colored hallway that then turned into all glass and lead to a man who was sitting pool side. It was Peter Lawford dressed all in white, barefoot and sipping a cocktail.

“Mr. Lawford, this is Mr. Peter Kyle of The Los Angeles Times.” The driver said introducing us.

“Thank you Rick. Mr. Kyle, sit down, please!”

“Thank you!” I said sitting next to him.

“Peter huh? Peter. I already like you.” Lawford said with a smirk noting our matching first names. 

“So Vicky tells me you’re interested in some details about Marilyn.”

“Yes, actually, first thank you for meeting with me, I just really want to be---“ I said but then was quickly cut off.

“Do you think I’m going to give you something you can’t find in some cop report or? I mean what’s your angel here?” Lawford said, a definite change in mood.

“Oh, I …uhh…well, actually I was just working on something that Eunice Murray gave me.” I explained.

“What?” He said surprised.

“Eunice Murray. Marilyn’s housekeeper, she told me yesterday that you were the last person to speak to her.” I said pulling out my notes from the interview with Murray.

Lawford furrowed his brow and took a drink of his cocktail. The ice jingling the side of the glass. He was sitting with this legs extended on the pool chair, sunglasses, very faint white hairs a top his head. There was a classiness about him, but I could see that booze and the hard Hollywood Rat-Pack lifestyle had gotten to him. He was still handsome but a tad withered and aged. But again…still so much old Hollywood class oozed out of him, it was intoxicating and I felt star-struck.

“What else did she tell you?” Lawford said sipping again.

I stammered and looked through my papers. “Just the same story she’s been telling really, other than that, the only thing that I could find was that she says you were the last to speak to Marilyn. I was just curious about that Mr. Lawford. What was your last conversation with her about?”

“I invited her to dinner. For the next day. She said she’d think about it. She was going through a lot of things at that point. The studio was out to get her for that whole mess about that picture ‘Something’s Got To Give’ so I thought I’d ask her to come out here and have dinner with me and my wife.” Lawford explained.

“She didn’t seem upset to you? Distressed?” I quizzed.

“No.” he said bluntly.

I started to get nervous because it seemed Lawford wasn’t going to be a very interesting addition to my piece, so I started to sort through the notes and papers of research from my bag to see if there was something else I could ask him about and I as searched a clumsily and nervously dropped all the papers all over the pool deck. The two of us started to pick them up; some of them soaked from pool water that had puddled under neither Lawford’s chair. The ink bleeding off in to the margins.  I apologized for my clumsiness and as I did so I picked a copy of a police report that mentioned the missing things from Marilyn’s home that I had not read the night before.

As I picked up the paper I saw more clearly what exactly was on the missing list: journals and personal papers from a filing cabinet that (to the officer interviewed) seemed to have had a broken lock, and also, noted towards the bottom of the page that had been smeared now from the puddle it was laying in, a list of recent visitors. The ink was smeared on some of the name but the one’s I could see were: Marilny’s doctors, Eunice, and one visitor in particular was circled but smudged from the water. That one I could not make out.

I started putting the forms back into my bag, hoping to read these names clearer on the original copies I had at home.

“Mr. Lawford, did you know anyone that would have wanted to harm Miss Monroe? There’s a police report that says things were missing from her home and since you were the last person to see her It thought maybe you’d have an idea about that? ” I said pulling a clean sheet of paper out to write down his answer.

Lawford removed his sun glasses and looked at me with a very stern and serious face. He handed me some of the papers that had fallen and that he helped pick up.

“Is that a serious question?” He asked.

“Yes, it is! See, it says here that….” I said again right before he interrupted me –again.

“You know, Marilyn and I were very good friends. I loved her like a sister. But she wasn’t always in the right frame of mind, you know what I mean? About a lot of things: about business, about her finances, and especially how she went about relationships.” Lawford said.

“Even romantic ones?” I asked.

“Any kind. She was broken, just broken.. We all wanted to help her. That’s all.” He said drinking from her glass again and replacing his sun glasses.

The heat of the afternoon was starting to be uncomfortable so Lawford had us take the rest of the interview inside. We walked past photos of all his famous friends and family. Kennedys, Sinatras, Martins. The lot. It was like walking into a Hollywood museum.

“You’ve had the best life!” I said picking up a photo of Lawford and JFK.

“I have. It was some of the most amazing times of my life, and I wouldn’t change any of it. These people are my closest friends. We’re very loyal to each other.” He said taking the photograph out of my hand.

“Even to Marilyn. Were you all loyal to her?” I said, but then just realized how that came out.

“What?” Lawford said furrowing his brow down at me.

“I just mean, I feel like, maybe, she was a part of this amazing group in a way, but sort of treated like a toy, you know, torn between who she really was and what everyone wanted from her. Especially in a group as dynamic as this.” I said trying to explain my comment but realizing it maybe made it worse.

“You sure have a very specific view of Marilyn and how she was, don’t you? The thing is no one really knew who she was because half the time it as all an act. Every last thing about her.” Lawford said.

“What happened to her papers Mr. Lawford? Papers and a journal were taken from her home that night. What were on them? What do you know about them?” He turned away from me to replace the frame of him and Sinatra I was looking at and lit a cigarette. There was a slight pause while he lit it.

“…….Thanks for coming. Good luck, alright?” he said with his back turned.

He never turned back to face me again, so I thanked him and saw myself out. Lawford knew more about the journal and the missing papers then he was leading on but wasn’t cracking, I needed a new lead. And fast.

On my ride home I was even more confused than ever. I had spoken to two people who had direct contact with Marilyn the night she died and neither of them gave me any clarity on what really happened, if anything I had more questions. Lawford’s driver Rick could see that I was stuck in thought.

“Didn’t get what you came here for huh?” He said looking at me in the review mirror.

“Not exactly, no.” I said toughly.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I sort of listened in on what you two were talking about.” Rick said, making a left turn on the La Brea.

“Ok.” I said snobbishly.

“The papers? The journal? They’re about ...well, they have some pretty interesting things in them. People she knew. Things she knew about people.” The driver said.

“What does that mean? How do you know this?” I questioned.

“I’m a driver buddy, I hear and see everything. Famous people sometimes forget we’re even here, and I’ve been working for Mr. Lawford for a very VERY long time. He’s a great guy, and was a wonderful friend to Monroe. But…there were others who didn’t treat her so good, you know? More powerful people that Mr. Lawford, at the time, couldn’t control.”

“Kennedy?” I asked.

“All Im gonna say is that I’ve heard of that stuff taken from the house, and what’s on them, buddy, what’s on them could have taken down a lot more than a marriage or two, so be really careful on what you find pal, got that? Be careful.” The driver said pulling up to my apartment.

The driver pulled away from my driveway and headed his way back to Lawford’s sprawling Palm Springs mansion surrounded by trees and green grass. I stood at the side of the road with my briefcase in one hand and questions popping up in my mind like crazy. I walked back to my front of my apartment and there was a note taped to my door. I opened the paper: “Meet me tonight at Casa Branca 9pm, we need to talk. --Vicky”

The Casa Branca restaurant wasn’t too far from my apartment so I decided to walk there. Decided? More like forced to, my car still wouldn’t start. The night was crisp and clear, one of those gorgeous Los Angeles nights where the sky was so clear no amount of city light could block the beauty of the stars in the sky.

I was dressed in my favorite dark black slacks, and Patten leather shoes. My favorite white shirt with small black polka dots was clean and pressed perfectly. I wanted to make sure I looked the best I could for Vicky. Who knew why she wanted to see me, but for whatever reason, I wanted her to see that I cleaned up well. She was one of the fresh faced starlets of the day and I was going to have dinner with her!

The streets were quiet, but it was a week night so that might have been the reason. I took a short cut through Rosewood Ave and crossed North Saint Vincent Blvd. I was only a few blocks from Casa Branca. I could literally see the restaurant’s sign as I made my down to the corner of Beverly Blvd and Saint Vincent. From behind me I heard a car turn and other cars honking at it. To me it was a pretty common occurrence to hear traffic noises so I didn’t even flinch. In the distance under the bright white CASA BRANCA sign I saw Vicky. She was in a green dress the clung to her hips and moved in the breeze at the bottom. She saw me and waved. I walked faster and from behind a black car, the same car that was being honked at came up fast. It spun around another corner. One of the windows rolled slightly down and Vicky screamed.

From inside a black car someone began to shoot. Bullets sprayed everywhere and started to ricochet off of other cars and dumpsters. Debris from trees and cement from the buildings the bullets were hitting flew into the air. People on the street started to scatter and run. People were screaming and running for cover. I didn’t even notice, but I was face down on the side walk covering my head and shaking. The car, a large black car, sped off. For a second there was silence. It was like the world around be had completely lost all sound.

The first thing I heard were Vicky’s shoes on the pavement as she came closer. She knelt down and pulled my shaking hands off my head.

“My god! Peter are you ok? Are you hurt?” She said helping me to sit up.

I looked all over my body and I wasn’t hit.

“I’m ok, I’m ok!” I said standing up. “What was that all about?” I asked dusting my now dirty pants and shirt off.

Vicky looked at me like I was crazy, how could I miss the connection, I had been poking around the lives of very important people who had ties to some very dangerous people.

“What?” I asked, still pretending not to connect the dots.

“Peter Lawford called me and told me about your conversation.” She said in a stern voice. “I don’t think you know what you’re dealing with. He told me you were asking about things other than their last conversation like you told me you would.” She added as she fixed the collar of my shirt.

 “I found more stuff to ask about, what’s the big deal?” I asked.

“Listen, I asked you here tonight because I wanted to warn you, but looks like I was a little late.” She said about the drive by as police sirens screeched in the background. “You’re getting into something that maybe you shouldn’t. I got you the interview with Lawford expecting it to be something about the phone call and that was it. I had no idea you’d try and get more information from him. He would never talk about Marilyn. I mean, look at what just happened!”

“How did you know he was the last to talk to her, and what are you saying? You think Lawford had something to do with the shooting?” I said ironically. I knew the shooting was no coincidence. As I waited for Vicky to answer the police showed up. She just stared at me like a puppy dog expecting me to spill the beans to the cops on who I thought the shooters were.

I just described the car as I saw, sort of: a dark blue truck.

Vicky and I made our way back to my place three hours after the whole incident. It was around 11:45 and with all the police fuss we hadn’t had time to grab a bite from Casa Branca, we were both starving. So I made us grilled cheese sandwiches as she slipped off her shoes and curled up on my couch looking at some of the pictures and reports of Marilyn Monroe that were in the boxes my Boss had given me. I came into the living room and sat next to her. I handed her the sandwich and she smiled a very Marilyn smile. Coy. Sweet. Innocent. But utterly sensual.

“She was like a glowing light you know?” She said taking a bite of her sandwich.

“Did you ever meet?” I wondered.

“Many times. She was very sweet in real life.” Vicky said of Marilyn. “Thank you for what you did. Telling the police it was a different car.”

“Well, I figured if I told them the truth, my whole story would blow up in my face you know?... No pun intended…besides right I can feel that I’m on to something. No one else has this information. And obviously I’m on track to something big!” I said pushing some of the photos out of the way of my feet.

“So, what? You’re going to keep perusing this?” Vicky said shocked. “Even after someone just tried to kill you?”

“Why would I Vicky? Look, I know you must love your Godfather, I get it, but something is going on. There are parts of this whole thing that don’t make sense. More than I ever knew! There are pieces of evidence that I had no idea existed until today that are literally missing! And you still haven’t told me how you knew Lawford was the last to speak with her.”

“Oh com on Peter everyone knows he was! Look you can’t keep pushing these people. The people who are involved don’t want you to know what she knew.” Vicky pleaded.

“The police said by the way the bullets were fired they weren’t actually trying to hit a target. They were just trying to scare me.” I said taking a bite of my sandwich.

“I asked you to dinner because of what my Godfather said to me over the phone. He doesn’t know what will happen if you keep pursuing the missing papers. “She explained putting down her grilled cheese sandwich and looking me dead in the eyes.

I looked at Vicky and wondered what all this had to do with her anyway. Was she really only here to warn me or did she have another motive. I grabbed all the papers that she was looking at and took them from her and started to put them back in their boxes.

“Look, maybe we should call it a night ok?” I said putting away the papers.

Vicky got up and started to grab her things when I turned around I saw that she was in her bag grabbing her keys and tightly tucked in her hand was a folded up paper. She had taken something from one of the boxes! I dashed over and pulled her around and tried to open her hand. She refused.

“Stop! Peter! Stop!” She yelled.

We struggled and eventually I was able to get her hand to open and the paper fell out and onto the floor. We both looked at each other for a split second but then I quickly bent down to pick it up. When I did, I saw that it was the original copy of the form that had fallen into the puddle at Peter Lawford’s house. This copy, was clear as day to read.

Written by the lead detective, were, indeed, the names of people the police had called and spoke to who were or were possibly connected to Marilyn the night she passed away. People who last spoke to her, people who may have had some knowledge of her mind frame, and people who were at the scene itself. There were 8 names: The housekeeper, two doctors who were at the scene, two of Marilyn’s ex-husbands, Marilyn’s friend Peter Lawford, Bobby Kennedy and then finally “M. Russ”. M. Russ was the circled named that had been blurred by water. Then I realized it.

“M. Russ? M….Michael Russ!” I said finally somewhat putting things together. “Your father, Michael Russ? Did your father see Marilyn that night Vicky?”

“Peter you don’t understand. There’s so much you don’t understand of that night.” Vicky said as she made her way to the door.

“You were you going to hide this? You know, Vicky, this isn’t the only piece of paper where I read his name.” I told her.  Vicky said nothing and continued to make her way out the door. I became frustrated and grabbed her by the arm and spun her around. “What are you hiding?!” I yelled.

She turned and stared and me and slowly pealed my hand off her forearm and replaced her purse over her shoulder.

“Thank you for grilled cheese Peter. Just remember this, these people only miss their target once.”

The next morning at the office everyone was talking about my narrow escape at death, when in reality most of the bullets had been shot all around me. Not one was aimed at me directly. But it felt good to have everyone crowed me at my desk like I was some kind super hero.

“So you’re telling me it was a blue car? Other witnesses are saying they’re certain it was black.” Calhoon said.

“I don’t know it all happened so fast.” I said…lying. It most definitely felt slow motion.

“You think it was just random, or what? I mean this doesn’t seem random Pete. You know what I’m saying?” McGee offered up.

“Totally random. Maybe they thought I was someone else, or maybe someone else.” I said continuing my cover up as my boss’s secretary walked up to the front of the pack of people at my desk.

“Hey! Dave wants to see you.” She said pointing at me with a pencil.

I walked over Dave’s office and he was on the phone with the police about the whole thing from last night saying that I had already given my statement and that our crime reporters were also given the reports from the night before. He looked at me like the person on the other end was crazy, giving me the whole windy wheel for a brain signal. He hung up the phone and turned his fan over to his body again—as it was sweltering in the office.

“What. The. Fuck!” Dave said lifting his sweaty arms up. I said nothing. “This is insane. You come to me three days ago asking to do a story on Marilyn Monroe, and all of a sudden you’re the target of a hit! What the hell man! What are you doing?”

“Well, I don’t really know if I was---” said trying to cover up the story again.

“Oh shut up! You know very well that you were the hit. Listen what’s going on? Sit your ass down and tell me everything.” He said pointing to the sticky leather seat.

 “Well the thing is, I think there’s a lot more to this whole mystery the meets the eye. I think Im on to something. Victoria Russ, you know, that actress? Well her father was one of the last people to meet or talk to Marilyn. And last night she came by my apartment and tried to take something that had her father’s name on it. She’s hiding something!” I said excitedly.

“Peter, have you lost your mind? This is not what I envisioned when you came to me with this story. I thought maybe you’d get a few good quotes from some famous people, maybe a good old photo-op of Monroe’s old place, but you were not meant to investigate anything.” Dave explained.

“I think this is major. We can be the paper the finds out what really happened to Marilyn Monroe! I found out that some person papers were taken from a safe in her house. Papers that I feel have something to do with either a Kennedy or Vicky’s father Michael. You have to trust me, Dave!” I said pleading for him to not kill my story.

He thought for a second and then shook his head, the beads of sweat twinkling in the sun light.

 “Well, what do you have? What’s your lead?” He said giving in.

“There’s report, a report that Vicky tried to steal yesterday and I think the papers and journals that were stolen from Monroe’s safe are connected to Michael Russ, that’s the only reason Vicky would have tried to swipe them last night.” I explained.

“How bad are things between you and this Vicky chick?” Dave said.

“I don’t know. I mean they’re not terrible I guess. She stormed out of my apartment yesterday when I caught her trying to take the police report that mentioned her father,  but I think I can get some more from her.” I said.

“Alright. Get what you can get from her, but if you hit another wall or if someone else tries to blow your head off, that’s it. The story is cut, you got that?”

Dave gave me one more shot. I had to get a hold of whatever the Russ’ were hiding. And I could think of only one person who just might know. Eunice Murray.

I made my way over to Eunice’s apartment later that afternoon and walked into the large iron gates. Again the courtyard surrounded by bright white apartments was quite. I was hoping Vicky was not home, as I didn’t want her to see me coming back to see Eunice. As I made my way around the pool passing Vicky’s staircase and beautiful dark haired woman with wrap around huge black glasses walked down the steps. At first I thought it was Vicky but something was different about her. As I got closer the woman smiled and I stopped when I noticed it was Vicky’s mother Kitty Russ.  

“Mrs. Russ?” I asked.

“Yes? Have we met?” Kitty said extending her hand to me.

Kitty Russ was a beautiful raven haired New York City socialite from a rich east coast family that married even richer and moved to Hollywood to be a star. She and her husband Michael were Hollywood Royalty that ran in the same circles as Marilyn Monroe did, especially since Michael Russ had been working with Marilyn for years on her last picture. Kitty wanted to be a star but wasn’t so lucky. After she was married and had her daughter she ended up just another Beverly Hills housewife with that wore too much makeup, had too much money, and nothing to do during the day

 “No, actually, I’m an acquaintance of Vicky’s.” I explained.

“Oh she isn’t home, so hard to get a hold of her these days. You’d think a 32 year old woman would call her mother more, but no, she still runs around like she’s a teenager. I thought I’d come down to her place and track her down.” Kitty said with a chuckle.

“Oh, sorry I missed her too. But, actually I was here to visit someone else. Where is Vicky by the way?” I asked slyly.

“Who knows? Probably some movie shoot I forgot about. Who are you here to see?” She equally as slyly asked.

“A movie shoot, right. I’m here to interview Mrs. Murray across the way, I’m a reporter with The Times.” I said.

“Ohhh! Well, isn’t that nice? Mrs. Murray. This must be about Marilyn then, yes?” Kitty asked.

“You got it. Actually, would you have some time right now? I mean you knew Marilyn Monroe, I assume right? Your husband worked with her on a few pictures right?” I asked

“Oh darling how wonderful, I haven’t the time now! But I can’t say no to an interview! Why don’t you pop ‘round my place in a few hours and we can gossip on all things Monroe. My husband is in New York, but I’ll be glad to answer your questions. I’m at 3636 Williams in Beverley Hills, just off of Wilshire.”

“It’s a date!” I said with a wink as the socialite walked off past the iron gates.

This was Hollywood. Anyone who was anyone wanted to be interviewed. No matter what it was about. If their names were in print about any subject whatsoever it was publicity, from the biggest starts in world to bored socialite housewives whose husbands barley pay attention to them.

As I walked up the steps to Eunice’s apartment, I was surprised to see her already waiting for me behind a screen door. She was dressed very similarly to how I first met her. Just common house clothes fitting a woman of her age.

“How are you Mr. Kyle?” She said in a welcoming tone.

“Very well thank you, Mrs. Murray. I was wondering if I could ask you a few more questions about the night Marilyn Monroe died. Just needed to clear some things up that I discovered.” I said as she stood at her door.

I Placed my hand on the lever of her screen door expected it to open and for Eunice to let me in but it was locked.

“This wont take long will it Mr. Kyle. We can do it here at the door. What did I miss in our first meeting?” She said sternly.

“Oh. Um…well there’s something in a report, uhh…let me see,” I said stammering at her screen door through my folder filled with papers. “…here it is, uh, there was report that said that a safe was tampered with at the house and that a few things were taken. Mainly journals and papers. Do you know anything about that?” I said slapping the report up against the screen for Eunice to read.

“Yes. That’s true. Her safe was tampered with.” Eunice again said very matter of fact.

“Is that it? I mean that’s all you have to say about that?” I said now frustrated that she want giving me more.

“Mr. Kyle I have gone over this story a million times in 10 years and franky maybe you’d be better off getting what you want from Miranda. I overheard you speaking with her…her interview will probably be the gossipy soap opera you’re looking for.” Eunice said as she closed the door behind the screen.

“Wait what are you talking about? Who’s Miranda? I was talking to Kitty Russ.” I asked as the door quickly came to a close, and from the last crack of open space just before she closed—and locked—the door Eunice gave me the shock of my life.

“Miranda Russ is Kitty Russ! Kitty is a nick name! For a reporter, you don’t do much research, do you?”

I started to get a sinking feeling that I was going in the wrong direction –again! The name M. Russ on the forms I’ve been reading of Marilyn’s final visitors may not have stood for Vicky’s father Michael, it may have been a note to talk to Vicky’s mother Kitty…aka Miranda Russ.

The Russ Estate was huge! I didn’t even know they had land this larger in this area of Beverly Hills. I took a cab that to the end of the block and decided to walk to the house down the palm lined street, it gave me some time to clear my mind and think of a strategy of questions for Kitty.

Everything had changed. The whole idea of the piece I was going to write went from a retrospective 10 year anniversary column to chasing down old Hollywood stars because of information they might have on the last night of Marilyn Monroe’s death to entirely new information that had never ever been leaked to the press or even followed up on with the police. This person mentioned on the police report “M. Russ” was never spoken to, never interviews. Somehow whoever it was, Michael or Miranda, knew something about that night that they’ve never told a soul, and to be honest I was terrified to find out.

I walked through the open gates and up the long cobble stone walk way that seemed like it went on forever. Or maybe it was just my nerves. As I was walking a car came up from behind me. I pristine white Cutlass convertible inside was Vicky.

“Hey stranger!” She said pulling up alongside me. The sweat from the summer sun starting seep through my pores.

“Hey yourself!” I said resting my arms on the car door.

“What are you doing here?” She asked, her smiling lips covered in bright red lipstick, her dark hair tussled to one side a side effect from riding fabulously through Hollywood in her convertible.

“Funny you should ask. I was invited here. I ran into your mother when I went to talk to Eunice this afternoon. She invited me over to talk, wasn’t that nice of her?” I said to Vicky’s who’s face went from smiling to stiff in seconds.

“You’re ….kidding.” She said softly.

“No.” I said in a similar soft tone.

It was as if Vicky knew I was close to knowing something. Something she had tried to hide from me the night before but then, like a light switch, she changed again.

“Well, Jump in! No sense you sweating all the way up to the house. Interviewing my mom will make you do that.” She said with a laugh,

We drove up the rest of the walk Vicky told me about her day. How she was shooting a toothpaste commercial. How didn’t care how small the part was. How did would rather get small parts on her own then let her father’s name and influence get her bigger parts. And as she gabbed on and on we turned the corner of the giant house into a sort of mini parking lot that housed all the family’s cars and as we did I noticed another car leaving in the opposite direction. The car was the exact same car that shot at me when I went to meet Vicky for dinner. She pretended not to see. I was stunned.

“Did you see that car?” I asked as she put her’s into park.

“What car?” She said removing her sun glasses.

“Vicky, the car that just past us. Didn’t you notice it? It’s the same one from last night!” Said turning around to see if I could get a lasting glimpse of it.

“Ok, listen, how long were you walking in this heat? That was not the car from last night. If it were that would mean our 67 year old butler Bromfield likes to go around West Hollywood in the middle of the night shooting at people. Besides everyone in this neighborhood has a car like that. So, no, that was not that car from last night, anyway, come on! Mom’s probably waiting!” She said dashing out of the car.

I turned again and gulped. I didn’t care what Vicky said, that WAS the car from last night. And now the nerves went from being unsure of what I would discover about Marilyn’s last night but thinking that my own life was in danger.

Vicky led me into her family’s mansion through the private entrance, and at first it seemed very low key and not as glamorous as the front of the home. But I was wrong. As soon as we exited, that private corridor lead to some of the most extravagant rooms I had ever seen in a home. There were mirrors everywhere. There was glass everywhere. Windows from floor to ceiling. There were pieces of art I thought could be found in the finest of European museums. There was no carpet anywhere. Just hard, cold, elegant marble that went on for what seems like miles all around me. It was like stepping into a cathedral of opulence and privilege.

“Let me see if she’s ready for you. One second.” Vicky said stepping into a private room where she believed her mother was in.

I looked around the room, and it reminded me of the room in Lawford’s home. Photos of some of the most famous people in the world. There was Elizabeth Taylor. Sean Connery. Laurence Olivier. And strangely, or maybe ironically, there it was Michael Russ and Marilyn Monroe.

I picked up the photo and looked at it for a second, then heard someone come back in. It was Kitty.

“Ah! Our treasure trove. Most of these people are acquaintances Mr. Kyle, but the photos are great conversation starters. Something to drink?” Kitty said as if I were the first guest at her cocktail party.

She was dressed in a light blue soft looking shapeless dress that flowed all round her like a pale cloud. Her hair was tied back in a thick black wave. She poured me a drink and ushered me over to the leather sofas so we could talk. Vicky came in shorty after. She sat behind her mother on the arm of the sofa like a guard dog waiting to attack me at the slightest misstep.

“Mrs. Russ---“ I started.

“Kitty. Everyone calls me Kitty”

“Right. Kitty, or Miranda. Actually you know it’s funny you mention your name because I have a report here from the LAPD that has you on a list of people they wanted to talk the night of Marilyn’s death. But it looks like they never did. Did you know what they wanted to talk to you about?” I asked as I pulled out the paper.

“Really!! How odd. I wonder why. No they never came to me.” She said in what I could tell was genuine surprise, and total lack of interest in the paper I was handing her.

“Did you speak to Marilyn that night?” I asked.

“No! I would never talk to people directly, I mean people that were involved with my husband’s work. No. Never. Mr. Kyle, I knew Marilyn socially. I thought we’d talk about what I knew of her when she came to here for parties or when the times we ran into her around town or even the time we ran into her in New York, remember that Vicky.” Kitty said.

“Why do you think the police would want to talk to you then?” I wondered.

She took a drink of her cocktail and pursed her lips, shook her head and leaned in a little as if to tell me a secret.

“Are we …on the record?” Kitty asked.

“Only if you want to be.” I answered.

“I don’t.” She replied.

“Ok, then we’re not.” I answered quickly.

“Relationships are funny Mr. Kyle. There are ups and there are downs. Mine was no different, my husband Michael, who is in New York right now, well Michael was…it was pretty obvious to me that there was a time he and Marilyn were sleeping together.”  Kitty said, shocking the room.

“Mother! You know that that’s not true.” Vicky yelled grasping on to the sofa.

“Oh please darling, I’m not stupid. No matter what you’ve ever told me, I know my own husband. I mean who cares now, right?! The woman’s dead and your father is off doing God knows what, plus I’m sure Mr. Kyle will be discrete. But really darling, what’s the point any more. It’s been 10 years.” Kitty said standing up and flowing over in her blue dress to a drawer passed photos of all her famous friends with her and her Husband to a huge oak case.

She placed her cold drink on top of a giant black piano that was to the left of the oak case then opened one of the case’s drawers and pulled out another small bock that had a lock on it. The key tight wound around her wrist on a golden bracelet. She unlocked the box and sat back down with me.

“Here. Read them, I don’t care.” Kitty said handing me the box.

“Mother I think you’ve had little too much to drink.” Vicky said sitting next to her mother and grabbing the box.

She was right, Kitty was getting a little drunk but she refused to let Vicky take the box and removed her hands from it. Vicky in turn grabbed the box from Kitty but Kitty would let go. It went from zero to sixty very fast and all of a sudden I saw mother and daughter battling over a small box of which the contents were still a mystery to me. I was frozen. They were pushing and shoving, one yelling to let go the other refusing to let go and me sitting there in utter shock.

Eventually Kitty yanked the box out of Vicky’s hands and if flew across the room and hit the bottom of the oak case it came out of. The smaller box snapped opened and folded papers spilled out all over the shag carpeting.

We were all stunned staring at the papers, so I went over and picked one up.

“Peter don’t.” Vicky demanded.

I opened the paper that smelled of Chanel No. 5 and saw that it was a letter addressed to Michael Russ and read it:

Michael,                                                                               6/4/1962

Hasn’t this been just the most amazing summer of ever? I am so glad to have you around at this time of my life. I love you Mikey. Can’t wait to see you Saturday.

Endless Love MM

“They were lovers! And I knew it all along. Everyone did. But I never went to see her. I couldn’t bare it. I intercepted every single letter she ever wrote. But he wrote her, I know he did. ” Kitty said fixing her hair after the tussle with Vicky.

“I…I’m sorry. This isn’t what I expected.” I said placing the remaining love letters that at one time Marilyn Monroe had hand written to her married lover and movie producer friend.

The room fell silent except for Kitty’s dress swishing over to the piano where her drink was sitting. She sniffed a pit and took a big gulp of her cocktail. It was an awkward feeling, I was watching this well put together woman fall apart at the seams before my vary eyes. Vicky whipped away tears, her equally dark hair equally as disheveled from the fight as her mother’s was.

“I think I should just give you a ride home Kyle, it would be better.” Vicky said drying tears from her cheeks that I had not noticed streaming down the whole time.

As Kitty continued to drink her homemade cocktails in her gilded palatial home that in reality was like her gilded cage filled with secrets Vicky walked me out of the house and into her car. We sat there for a second as she composed herself and as she tried to explain what we just witnessed.

“See. I told you, you wouldn’t understand.” Vicky said placing her car in reverse.

“You were protecting your mother, weren’t you?” I said finally realizing that Vicky had a hand in just about everything that had happened. She knew that getting into the details of all of this again would cause her mother to go into a tail spin. A nervous breakdown.

“You should have seen her back then. When I found the letters to my father and I showed her, it was like the world came crashing down. It took a really long time for her to get back to where she is now. I had her convinced it was only one sided, that Marilyn was obsessed with my father. It worked for a long time, and I had to make sure it stayed that way. I had to protect my mother, no matter how bad the situation was. Her realizing that my father was unfaithful would have killed her. She suffered a horrible nervous breakdown…just inconsolable. I’m really sorry Peter. I am!!” Vicky explained as we drove down Hollywood Blvd on route to my apartment.

“But she said she knew all along.” I Added.

“It’s been 10 years, she knows almost everything I’m sure. Almost.” Vicky said staring straight out on to the road.

“So –wait—you had someone come and shoot at me!!!?” I said turning to her when I realized she had to have had that planned out.

“I needed to get you scared Peter! I thought that if you thought that someone from Lawford’s camp was out to get you that it’d scare the shit out of!” She yelled back.

“I’m sorry! Fine! There I said it. I’m sorry! Had I known this would happen, I wouldn’t have dug as deep as I did.”

My explanation and promise that I wouldn’t add this in the article I was writing seemed to comfort her. She dropped me off at my apartment and I began to brain storm on what exactly I would write on the day of the anniversary of Marilyn’s death. The truth is, I would never know. I would never really know what happened to Marilyn. There were only a few people who probably did know, and one those people, a smart sexy dark haired actress who was barley in her 20’s when it all happened wasn’t going to break her silence to me. Not to anyone.

When my article finally did come out I did as I promised and didn’t do the whole fan fair of the Marilyn Monroe myth with a “WAS IT SUICIDE? WAS IT MURDER” headline like I had planned. In fact the whole thing wasn’t at all like I had thought it would turn out. My article read very simple:

“As I drive down some of the most famous streets in Hollywood, streets that Marilyn herself might have driven down 10 years ago when she was one of the most famous women alive I realized that her death isn’t just something that happened to an icon of the cinema, it’s something that happened to a nation of people that adored her. But they didn’t really know her.

Hollywood has a way of taking the most innocent of people and turning their lives upside down. Money. Fame. Power. All of it mixed with people who don’t have one’s best interest at heart is might really be what took Marilny’s life 10 years ago today. Some still say it was a suicide, some still say it was murder. Maybe it was both.”

AUGUST 4^th, 1962
BRENTWOOD, CA MARILY MONROE’S HOME
11:48PM

A woman with dark hair sneaks out of the home of American film icon Marilyn Monroe from a back door that was left open. With her a hand full of pills that were at the side of Marilyn’s bend. She sneaks around the house, and notices that the housekeeper is awake and is now outside of Marilyn’s bedroom peering into the window. The woman dashes to the front gate through some thick bushes. She hopes the housekeeper, Eunice Murray hasn’t seen her.

Eunice still in her pink robe has just spoken with Marilyn’s doctor who has instructed her to go outside and peer through the window to see if Marilyn is ok, and after moving the sheer curtains back from the window with a fire poker she sees the famous woman naked on her bed. Not responsive. 

Eunice gasps and covers her mouth at the sight and calls out to her. But Marilyn still does not respond. 

Outside, now beyond the gates of Marilyn’s bungalow stands the beautiful brunette going over what had just happened inside. A secret she would hide forever.

She had come to see Marilyn, a friend of the family about letters Marilyn had written to her father. Love letters that detailed an affair. An affair the young woman wanted to end.

It was just after 10:30pm.

 “I…don’t know what to tell you…I love your daddy.” the woman would remember Marilyn slur in a pill induced haze. “and…I’m having his baaaa..by……..” Marilyn said as she slipped into a deep sleep.

The woman’s eyes turned to sauces. “A BABY!” she would remember thinking.

The young woman who had been in the house not even half an hour felt a rush of adrenalin pour over her. It felt like a thunderbolt of lightning striking her, a hatred even. She was consumed by a rage that she had never felt before.

As Marilyn fell deeper into sleep the young woman looked around the room, if her father was receiving letters, there was no doubt that Marilyn had the responses. She had to find them

As the woman quietly shuffled through Marilyn’s things she noticed a safe on the floor near the closet. She looked around and saw a small key on the dresser. She instantly snatched it up and tried the safe. It unlocked. And there they were, the letters from her father to Marilyn professing his love her and their new baby.  The woman’s rage intensified and she made a fist, the letter crumbling in to a ball inside of it.

Suddenly the young woman found herself straddling Marilyn’s body as she slept. It was like something had taken over her. She had to do what was best for her family. At least that’s what she kept telling herself. She picked up the second pink satin pillow and placed it over Marilyn’s icon face and held it there until the star no longer was breathing. There was now only silence and scent of Chanel No. 5 perfume lingering in the room like ghost.

The woman quickly got up, saw what she had done and began to panic. She grabbed the rest of Marilyn’s pills at the side of her bed hoping people would think Marilyn took them all and stopped breathing. And just before she left she glanced in the mirror. She looked at herself and thought “what kind of person did I just become!?” It was the 22 year old face of a young confused girl who was fighting to keep her family together, whatever the cost. It was the tear stained face of Victoria Russ.