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Mason ate three waffles, then went home and threw herself onto her bed. She had been asleep for a little over an hour when she was woken by a ping from her phone. A text, from Julia.

Will texting you digitized film. Go show Maggie, get names, then go see Helen and ask her what she and Tony talked about at lunch the day before he was killed. Report back.

As she was reading, another text arrived, this time with the film. She watched it quickly, enjoying Bella’s fighting skills and Julia’s feathered haircut in equal measure, then sighed a deep sigh and dragged herself out of bed.

Another text, this time from her mother. How’s the job going? Still got it?

She frowned and headed into the bathroom. Her mother’s low expectations were usually only matched by Mason’s low performance, but she realized she wanted to keep this job. It was entertaining. She regarded her rapidly darkening bruises in the mirror and reached to turn on the shower. The ache in her arms made her groan involuntarily. OK, she told herself, maybe only entertaining in the widest applicable sense of the word.

The hot shower made her feel a whole lot better, and as she put her car in gear and headed to Galliano’s, she wondered if anyone would be there this time of the morning.

Everyone was. Including a phalanx of reporters outside of the club, one of whom recognized her and hailed her like a long-lost sister.

“Natasha Mason! Julia Mann’s new right-hand girl! Why’s Julia interested in Galliano’s?”

“She’s not,” replied Mason, pushing past.

“She’s representing the woman accused of murdering the stripper, right? She filed appearance with the court yesterday. That makes her representation official.”

“Did she?” Mason kept moving, wondering what else Julia had done that she didn’t know anything about.

“Yes,” replied the reporter, “and when Julia takes on a client, it’s pretty rare they get convicted. What does she know?”

“Very little,” said Mason, finally reaching the door of the club, which she prayed was open.

It was. And the club was full.

It turns out even burlesque requires rehearsal, and that midmorning, Maggie was auditioning new acts and tweaking old ones. She looked up as Mason came through the door and started grinning.

“Please tell me you came back to pay for the chandelier?” She pointed to a guy on a ladder, repairing the chandelier that had taken the full weight of the principal from Yucaipa the night before and was clearly feeling the effects. “I realize you weren’t the one dangling from it, but your boss was standing underneath shouting jump, jump , so I hold her responsible.”

“Not going to argue with you,” replied Mason, coming over and sitting down.

“I read about the attack this morning. Normally, my bouncers would have sorted out the guy. Sorry about that.”

“Not your fault,” replied Mason easily, although she could feel her muscles stiffening up from the previous night’s many activities. Lucky she was young and limber.

Danny Agosti was there, too, eating a croissant and drinking espresso from a cup that looked like dollhouse china in his hand. On the stage, a contortionist in a transparent leotard was pretzeling in a way that managed to be both erotic and weird. Mason could barely drag her eyes away. How did she even get her feet up there?

Maggie looked coolly at the contortionist and then at Mason. “What brings you here, if it’s not reparations?”

Mason pulled out her phone. “We found a Super 8 film canister last night, and Julia remembers Tony giving it to her. We’ve identified one of the people in it.” She looked at Danny. “It’s your father, Mikey, but Julia wondered if you knew the other two?”

She cued up the film and played it, handing over her phone.

“Oh my God, Bella,” said Maggie immediately, and then, “Oh my God, the haircuts. Those were the days.” She watched for a moment in silence, and Mason imagined the film, the body language of the men. “That’s Mikey, for sure, and one of the guys was called Don, I think. The other one I don’t know.” She tapped the screen to replay the film and handed it to Danny. “Any ideas?”

He pushed the last piece of croissant in his mouth and reached to take the phone. Watched in silence, his lips tight.

“Yeah, it’s my dad. Don, sure. The other guy looks familiar but I don’t remember his name. It might come back to me.” He frowned at Mason. “There’s nothing actionable happening there; it’s just guys interacting. Nothing to see.”

“Might your mother know?” Mason was slightly distracted by the arrival of three identical triplets shimmering mostly naked across the stage, but held it together.

“No idea. Not going to show her, if that’s what you were about to ask. I don’t want her involved in any way.” He handed Mason back her phone. “What is this supposed to prove?”

Mason shrugged. “No idea. Tony gave it to Julia for a reason, and we’re assuming it’s to do with Jonathan’s death. But no one’s investigating that crime, so Julia’s simply being nosy, as is her way. And she still doesn’t remember anything about the evening Tony was killed, so she’s looking for information that might jog her memory.”

“Well, I’ve nothing to add, and if that winds up on the Internet I’m going to be pissed.”

Mason felt her back get up. “Why? It’s just an old home movie.”

“Well then, let me rephrase. If that hits the Internet with any suggestion of criminal wrongdoing, then I’m going to be pissed.”

“No one’s even looking into Jonathan’s death. Why are you so defensive?” Mason could hear her tone getting pretty aggressive, and tried taking a breath. Pause. Don’t lose your serenity over this guy.

“Do you think triplets works?” asked Maggie suddenly. “Or does it feel like one too many?” She raised her voice. “Can just two of you do it?”

“No,” called back one of the three girls. “We come as a unit.”

“So to speak,” said another.

“If you’ll pardon the phrase,” said the third.

Maggie laughed. “OK, then, run through it again. Are the feathers really necessary?”

“Yes.”

“Adds atmosphere.”

“And cushioning.”

Maggie laughed again, then turned back to Mason and Danny. “I’m not sure why you’re so cranky about this. It happened a very long time ago. As Mason says, no one’s interested in Jonathan’s death; they’re focused on Tony’s. No one’s suggesting a link between your family and that, so why so stressed?”

Danny looked cross. “I don’t want anything to get started.”

“It won’t,” replied his partner. “You care too much about what other people think. Fuck them.” She looked at Mason. “Sorry we can’t be more helpful. If I remember the other guy’s name, I’ll call Julia.” She paused. “Has she met with Becky Sharp yet?”

Mason shook her head.

“I’ve been thinking about it. I really don’t think she has it in her to kill Sam. I think you need to look elsewhere.”

“I believe that’s the plan.”

“Well, that I’d like to help with. Let me know.” She waved her hand. “Now I need to get back to work.” She reached over and stole what was left of Danny’s coffee, then waved the cup at a waiter for more.

Mason got up to leave as the triplets exited and a miniature horse clip-clopped across the stage.

“No!” barked Maggie. “No livestock!”

Mason made her way out of the club, grinning.

Helen Eckenridge lived in Silver Lake, up in the hills. Silver Lake was the LA neighborhood that reminded Mason most of Berkeley, thanks to its winding narrow streets, Craftsman-style houses, prayer flags and peace signs. The air smelled of pot rather than money.

Mason squeezed past an enormous car in the driveway and rang the bell. She couldn’t hear it, but clearly it rang somewhere, because a pack of dogs started barking furiously. It sounded like there were at least a dozen, but when she looked through the glass panels of the front door, she saw only four, piling through from the large courtyard that extended up the hill.

The front door swung open. “Don’t worry, they’re harmless…” Close up, Mason could see faint lines around Helen’s eyes, occasional silver in the golden hair. She was maybe forty-five? Fifty? Still much younger than Tony. Fit and muscular in the way so many women in Los Angeles were. And beautiful, of course, but within the normal range of humanity, rather than Hollywood Outstanding. “Do you mind dogs?”

“Not at all, I love them,” Mason replied, bending to pat the suddenly friendly mass of wagging tails. She straightened up and found Helen looking at her inquiringly. They’d met at the will reading, but Helen showed no signs of recognition. To be fair, no one had introduced Mason, or maybe Helen was just bad with faces.

“I’m Natasha Mason…I work for Julia Mann. We’re investigating Tony’s death, and I was hoping you could answer a few questions?”

Helen smiled tightly. “Julia and I aren’t exactly friends, but if she didn’t kill Tony, then I’ve no reason to see her go to jail for it.”

“Well, I guess that would depend on how much you’re not friends,” replied Mason, “but I don’t intend to take up a lot of your time.”

Helen shrugged. “Come on in. I’m in the middle of casting for a show, so we may be interrupted a little.” She turned and made a path through the dogs.

The house was decorated in the deceptively casual style Mason was familiar with. As a delivery person, she’d dropped off single boba teas to wealthy teenagers in this neighborhood, and the piles of cushions (interesting fabrics, clashing colors), eclectic artwork (three-dimensional pieces paired with obscure movie posters) and pleasingly simple (but handmade to order) mid-century furniture told her a lot about the woman walking away from her down the hallway. The French doors onto to the courtyard were open, the air smelled of jasmine and rosemary, and she could see a yoga mat unrolled on the flagstones. Nice life.

She followed Helen into the kitchen, which rivaled Julia’s in size but which clearly didn’t see as much action. Copper-bottomed pots hung gleaming from a rack above an industrial cooktop, but the spice jars were all immaculate and full to the brim. The bottles of expensive oil were artistically chosen and elegantly arranged but still unopened. The roll of paper towels was unused…Nobody cooked in this kitchen. An array of headshots, all young men, were spread out on the counter.

A housekeeper was bustling around the kitchen, but Helen ignored her and turned to Mason.

“Tea?” asked Helen, then hesitated before opening a cupboard containing many kinds of grains and beans in matching canisters, but no tea. She tried a second cupboard and struck gold. “I have Lapsang souchong, jasmine green, peppermint, chamomile…” She turned to look at Mason. “Or would you prefer coffee?”

They both looked at the chrome-handled espresso machine and Mason took pity on her. “Just water, thanks.”

“Sparkling or filter?”

Inwardly, Mason sighed. Sometimes people were just too damn hospitable. She flashed a glance at the housekeeper, but she was busy doing something to the contents of the fridge and was ignoring Helen as hard as Helen was ignoring her.

“Tap’s fine.”

“Ice?”

“No, straight up, thanks.”

Once that little pantomime was over, Helen led the way into the courtyard and took a seat at a weathered French café table with charmingly mismatched wrought iron chairs. The whole place felt like a set, and Mason wondered if it was a professional necessity, the curating of environment. Then she met Helen’s gaze and was surprised at the intense appraisal she saw there—she wasn’t the only one judging. But maybe she’d been mistaken, because the other woman smiled and her tone was completely neutral.

“How can I help?”

Mason shrugged. “I was hoping you could tell me about the last time you saw Tony, how he was, what you talked about, that kind of thing.”

The front doorbell rang, and moments later the housekeeper passed by, heading to open it. Helen paid her no attention, and answered Mason’s question.

“We talked about work, as usual. Exchanged notes about The Codex , about some other projects he had coming up, that kind of thing. I’ve been working on a screenplay about Palm Springs in the late sixties, and we talked about that.” She described a graceful arc with her hands. “Various things, you know.” She paused. “He asked after my dogs; he knows I’m always happy to talk about them.” A gentle, wry smile. “He seemed normal, for him.”

“You were still married but separated, is that right?”

Helen nodded. “Neither of us felt a desperate urge to divorce, no new relationships approaching that level of seriousness, you know…” She hesitated. “We were both married to our work.”

The housekeeper appeared in the arched entrance to the courtyard, in the company of an extremely handsome, dark-haired young man. Helen looked up at him and frowned.

“No, thanks.”

The young man flushed. “Can I leave a headshot?”

“Sure,” said Helen, already back to looking at Mason. “You might be right for something else.”

The housekeeper led the young man away. Mason raised an eyebrow and went back to interviewing.

“You’re a writer?”

Helen nodded. “I’m a director, but I also write.”

“You won an Academy Award for the Codex screenplay.”

“A long time ago. I think of myself as a director first.”

Mason nodded. “Are you directing The Codex remake?”

Helen nodded. “I intend to.” Another elegant, subtle movement of her shoulders. “The final choice is up to Christine, but she and I have been talking it over for months.” She looked like she was maybe going to say something else, but didn’t. “Tony and I didn’t discuss that, if that was your next question.”

The door again. The same soft padding of the housekeeper, the same presentation of an almost identical handsome young man.

This time Helen gazed for slightly longer, but then shook her head again. “Sorry, we’re looking for something different.”

“I can be different,” said the actor. “I could dye my hair. Wear contact lenses.”

“No, thanks,” said Helen, dismissively. He turned and skulked away, the housekeeper behind him.

Mason got things back on track. “I was going to ask where you were the night Tony died?”

“At home.”

“Alone?”

“Unless you count the dogs, yes.”

“Did you speak to anyone?”

“Yes, I had a work Zoom call in the middle of the evening. Or at least, I was supposed to. With Christine. But she had been in an accident or something, so when I logged on she told me she was too frazzled to do the call. We rescheduled.”

“What was the call about?”

“Several things. The Palm Springs script, one or two other things.”

“Did you discuss The Codex ?”

Helen shook her head. “Like I said, we didn’t end up discussing anything.”

“One final question: You seemed surprised that Tony left the studio the way he did. Were you?”

Helen nodded. “I expected him to leave it to Christine, end of story. But that was Tony all over. He loved to make promises, especially to women. And then he’d do whatever the hell he wanted. He did it all the time.”

“To you?”

“Not as much to me, but he did it. He would get carried away, promise the earth and deliver a handful of dirt. He expected his charm to carry him through, and usually it did.” Helen stood up. “If you have more questions, you should feel free to email my agent, but now I need to get ready for that call. Thanks so much for coming by. Please give my regards to Julia.”

A third ring on the doorbell.

“I’ll get it,” called Helen. “I’m just showing my guest out.” She started walking and Mason followed.

She said, “I’ll certainly pass on your regards, but I thought you weren’t friends.”

Helen laughed. “This is Hollywood, Miss Mason. Friends or enemies, everyone is cordial on the surface, otherwise we’d never get anything done.”

“You’re all pretending?”

Helen didn’t answer, just led the way to the door. Once there she smiled another gentle smile and said, “All the world’s a stage, remember.”

“And all the men and women merely players?”

“Sure. We just play better than most.” She held the door as Mason walked through, then took one look at the hopeful and stunningly attractive man waiting on the doorstep.

“No thanks, but thanks for your time.”

Mason and the young actor both watched the door close in their faces, then turned and headed down the steps.

“Is she casting the female lead, too?” the guy asked Mason.

“I’m not an actress,” she replied.

“You should be,” he returned, looking at her with open appreciation. “You have a definite look, do you know what I mean?”

“I don’t think I could handle the rejection,” Mason said. “How do you do it?”

He shrugged, pausing to let her go ahead at the bottom of the stairs. “You get used to it.”

“Yeah,” said Mason. “Well, good luck.”

“Thanks,” he said, beaming a million-dollar smile that in any other city would put him in the top one percent of beautiful residents and which here got him precisely zero. “Today could be the day, right?”

“More castings?”

“Two more and a callback,” he replied, heading down the street to where his bicycle stood locked to a lamppost. “Living the dream.”

Mason looked at her phone. A text from Julia: You’re taking too long. Claudia made pizza for lunch but I ate yours. Hurry up.

“Yeah,” she muttered, “living the dream.”