The Hurricane Blonde

by Halley Sutton

Genres: Crime Fiction; Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

AN INSTANT USA TODAY BESTSELLER

A former child starlet is plunged back into the dangerous glitter of Hollywood after discovering the body of a young actress.

Salma Lowe, progeny of Hollywood royalty and a once-promising child actor, now spends her days as a guide for the Stars Six Feet Under tour, leading tourists through Los Angeles’s star-studded avenues to haunting sites where actresses of the past met untimely ends. Salma knows better than anyone that a tragic death is the surest path to stardom. Her sister, Tawney, viciously dubbed the "Hurricane Blonde," was murdered in the nineties, the case never solved and, to Salma’s ire, indefinitely closed . . . until she stumbles upon a dead body mid-tour, on the property where her sister once lived, at the precise scene of her sister’s demise. Even more uncanny: the deceased woman also looks like Tawney.

The police are convinced this woman’s death was an accident—but Salma is haunted by the investigation’s echoes of her own past. What if this woman’s murder points to Tawney’s killer? Desperate to track down the culprit once and for all, Salma launches her own investigation, plunging back into the salacious but seductive world of Hollywood. And what she’ll find is that old secrets may just be worth killing for.

Release date: August 8, 2023

Publisher: G.P. Putnam's Sons

Print pages: 384

Sample

Chapter 1

The pretty blonde would be dead in three minutes.

She stood in front of the Biltmore Los Angeles hotel, wind snapping her black linen dress against her waist, revealing shiny Spanx and spray-tanned thighs. Ringed around her, a dozen true-crime junkies baked under the September sun, leaking electrolytes but not enthusiasm. Not yet. For three more minutes, Beth Short-better known as the Black Dahlia, Los Angeles's most infamous unsolved murder-was alive to tell her story.

"I hitched a ride up from San Diego with a traveling salesman," the Black Dahlia said. "A 'nice guy,' married. You know the type." Melany Gray, the actor embodying the Dahlia, pantomimed handsy, skimming her palms over her bodice. My murder tourists laughed, nudged each other. Yes, yes, we know.

Stars Six Feet Under wasn't the only tour company in Hollywood that promised an insider's look at the macabre underbelly of fame. But we had something that set us apart. We had my Dead Girls. For four hours every day of the week except Mondays and holidays-though you'd be surprised how many people preferred spending Christmas with murdered starlets over their own families-I could bring the dead back to life.

"I told him I was meeting my sister. But he wouldn't leave me alone. A gentleman." The Dahlia rolled her eyes. "I sat in that lobby trying not to play footsy with him for hours." She gestured to the Biltmore behind her.

I'd heard the story hundreds of times, but I couldn't help myself. I turned on cue with my tourists and stared at the hotel, glittering in the white sun.

In 1947, when the Black Dahlia was murdered, the Biltmore was the largest, fanciest hotel west of Chicago. She was class, and money, and all the promise of Los Angeles—that mirage of fame and success and good fortune—rolled up into one.

Now, nearly a hundred years into her residency—ancient in this city, which preferred its buildings like its women: shiny, new, young—the Biltmore was starting to show her cracks. Sumptuous carpets a little threadbare. Gilded frescoes dingy and studded with gray gum patches old enough to vote.

In the end, she had brought the Black Dahlia fame.

"By the time I got rid of him," the Dahlia said, blonde strands escaping her black wig, "it was night." Her voice fell to a hush, leaving us to imagine January 9, 1947, when Beth Short wandered from the lobby of the Biltmore into the dark, dangerous cold of downtown Los Angeles and disappeared. A week later, her body, cracked open like an egg, would be discovered across town by a young mother and daughter out for a sunny morning stroll.

Melany paused, letting us sit in our imaginations, wondering. Then she shivered, fluttering her fingers over actual goosebumps raised on her bare arms.

I peered closer, impressed. Actual goosebumps—a good trick. All the girls I hired from my mother's acting school for my tour came with the Vivienne Powell guarantee of excellence, of course. But goosebumps on command—even Vivienne's magic didn't usually extend that far.

"Who knows what might have happened to me if he hadn't been such a gentleman," Melany said. "Maybe I would've left while it was still daylight. Maybe I would've lived a long life. We'll never know."

I nibbled on the edge of my thumb, biting deep into cuticle and sucking on the pain. Like every tour, I wanted to stop her there. Keep Beth Short alive a few more minutes. But that wasn't the way the story ended. You couldn't cheat the past.

I knew that better than anyone.

Melany finished the monologue I'd written, sharing theories about the Dahlia's fate: The sons and nephews who came out of the woodwork with stories about bad daddies who might've killed her. Thousands of suspects. Never solved. I didn't think it could be anymore, not really. The Black Dahlia meant something to Los Angeles, but only as a mystery. Even if they didn't know it, people preferred it that way.

Melany stared at me, eyebrows raised.

Earth to Salma. I cleared my throat. "Any questions?"

In the back, a woman with sunburned shoulders and a puffy purple fanny pack raised her hand. I tried not to roll my eyes. I could guess her question. She'd want personal details about the Dahlia. She'd have her own theories about who she was, what happened to her, why it happened to her. I'd come to think of Beth Short as something of a litmus test: You tell me what you see when you look at the Dead Girl, and I'll tell you what's missing in your life.

"Yes?"

"Didn't the brochure say we'd get a cocktail?" A low rumble of laughter moved through my group. Emboldened, Purple Fanny Pack smirked. "I mean, this is the Salma Lowe tour, right? I'm surprised we don't get drinks at every stop."

The laughter was louder this time. I scrunched my face into an almost-smile. "Funny," I said. "I haven't heard that one." I gestured at the hotel. "Upstairs, the bartender has crafted a real treat-a Black Dahlia cocktail, special for our tour. Be back here in twenty minutes, or the bus leaves without you."

My tourists lined up for their drink tokens, jabs at my tabloid past long forgotten as they held up their palms for the promise of lobby air conditioning, phantom taste of Chambord and Absolut citrus already on their tongues.

When I'd first started my tour, I'd made the mistake—oh, what a mistake—of believing my guests wanted to understand my own obsessions: the shadow side of the Hollywood spotlight, the darkness that beckoned for women who burned too brightly. She had everything until she didn't. The Marilyn Monroes, the Jayne Mansfields, the Thelma Todds and Jean Harlows and Dorothy Strattens—none of whom lived past thirty-six.

But after five years, I knew what my riders really wanted: photographic evidence of being interesting-dark, complicated, ever so slightly twisted. They'd gladly fork over seventy-five dollars to let tragedy crinkle the edges of their cookie-cutter, basic-bitch lives, sprinkling Dead Girls over their Instagram feed like a game of brunch, brunch, murder.

Melany hovered near my elbow as I handed out the final token. I let the doors slide shut—that air con did feel good—then said, "Goosebumps on command. Impressive."

"Really?" Melany's face lit up, pink as a shrimp. "You were impressed?"

I winced. Actors were like puppies, eager to soak up praise and attention. And like puppies, there was something appealing and dangerous about all that tell me I'm good and I'll follow you anywhere trust. It could get a girl in trouble. "You made Vivienne proud."

She bounced happily on her toes, dress swishing around her knees. I rummaged through my purse, looking for the check I owed her, along with a tip—goosebumps deserved a tip—when Melany said, the words all in a rush, nasal Texas twang creeping in, "Then would you put in a good word with her? There's this part I'll die if I don't get—well, actually, I already didn't get it, but maybe there's another part, and if Vivienne freaking Powell tells him I'm a good actor, Cal will reconsider—"

"Cal?" My purse dropped onto the asphalt. A lip gloss and a tampon, identical shades of pink, bounced into the street. "Cal Turner?"

Melany bent down, gathered the tubes for me. "His new super-secret project. The casting director won't even release the full sides for auditions. It's on an"-her fingers made bunny quotes around my tampon and lip gloss-"'as-needed basis.'"

Restricting sides-script excerpts actors used for auditions-was not the worst rumor I'd heard about Cal. The most dangerous director in Hollywood, one magazine had dubbed him-like it was a good thing. When I'd known him, he'd been a fledgling auteur with a leading man's face and a bad temper. And my sister's fiancé.

"So? Will you?" Melany's face was eager, like a little girl promised a toy.

I'd always been a coward when it came to conflict.

I dug through my purse again, stalling as I fished out a floppy worm of orange sugar-free gum, thinking of Cal's face as I chomped it. "Sure," I lied. Even if acting wasn't high on the list of things my mother and I no longer talked about, I wouldn't have done it. Not for Cal's film. "I'll put a bug in her ear."

Melany gripped my arm. I couldn't look at her. "Oh my God, I can't thank you enough. Salma, you're a lifesaver." When I looked up, Melany's head was tilted as she watched me, her cornflower-blue eyes wide. "Don't you ever miss acting?"

The gum fell to the back of my throat. I coughed. "Miss it?"

"I used to watch Morty's House as a kid, you know. You were good. You were funny." She hesitated for a moment, then said, almost shyly: "Iron Prayer is my favorite film."

If I had a dollar for every time someone told me my parents' film Iron Prayer was their favorite movie- Well, in a way, my family did have a dollar, more than a dollar, for every time I'd heard it.

But Morty's House wasn't anyone's favorite show, except maybe mine. Playing plucky Polly Parker hadn't required much acting talent besides mastering a salty sprinkle of one-liners, like: Gosh, Mr. Morty, don't you know what to say to make a girl feel special! with an eye roll so big, I had to ice my forehead between takes. Morty's House left me with a permanent bald spot behind my right ear from years of a pulled-too-tight ponytail, meager residual checks from our brief flirtation with syndication in the early aughts, and a taste for amphetamines in the form of producer-mandated diet pills.

It had also been the only time in my childhood when I'd had friends, real sleepover-truth-or-dare-MASH-until-morning friends.

Melany wasn't done. "You can't tell me Vivienne Powell and Dave Lowe's daughter doesn't have acting in her blood." Melany must have seen my face, because she clicked her tongue, shook her head. "I'm sorry. That was thoughtless."

Even though it had been almost two years since my father died, every mention of him was like a tiny punch still, another reminder he was gone for good. I still expected him to pick up the phone when I called. It was a shock to remember-like I'd carelessly misplaced him somewhere. But it was death that had been careless with me.

How you stop acting: Never live up to your family's expectations. Delight the tabloids with a never-ending stream of bad angles and bad choices, the merry-go-rounds of rehab to red carpet and back again, the box office bombs and black sheep antics that sell more glossy covers than good news can. You won't believe what Sloppy Salma did now! You stop acting when you sell more magazines than movie tickets.

And in the end, when you needed it most, fame meant nothing. It couldn't protect you from the things that go bump in the night. It couldn't protect you at all.

Melany just didn't know it yet.

"I'll put in that word," I said. Behind us, a few of my tourists staggered down the lobby stairs, cherry-cheeked and loose. "Thanks again, Melany."

I turned on my heel, blinking into the smoggy sunlight as I crossed the street to my bus. I folded my arms against the steering wheel, ignoring the leather scalding me through my sleeves. Melany gave the hotel one last look, then slid the wig from her head, shaking out her long blonde hair underneath it.

She didn't need my good word anyway. She was Cal Turner's type exactly.

I closed my eyes as the tourists mounted the steps. I didn't want to watch them swaying into their seats like big drunk babies, yelping and giggling as they leaned against scorching windows, making a show of fanning themselves with a Stars Six Feet Under brochure. Ready to devour one more Dead Girl before the ride home.

I was always jumpy at this part of my tour.

As the bus rocked, I practiced my final monologue of the day. Tawney Lowe-an actor you might also know as the Hurricane Blonde-died twenty years ago, in the hours between 10:30 a.m. and 1:17 p.m. on June 16, 1997. But no, that was pulling a punch. Tawney Lowe was murdered in the hours between...

Murder. The word stuck in my throat like a clot of phlegm.

I counted backward from ten before I tried again. It was an old trick from the Betty Ford Center for Clean Living and No More Fun, where I'd served two tours: a longer stint from 2001 to 2002, as a teenager, and a shorter stay in 2004, a refresher course on the appeal of court-mandated sobriety.

Twenty years ago, my sister, Tawney Lowe-also known as the Hurricane Blonde-was strangled to death. Her murder has never been solved.

I'd said it before. What was one more time?

I opened my eyes. "Okay, everyone," I said, glancing at my sun-mottled crew in the rearview as I nosed the bus back onto the glitter and rush of Los Angeles's streets, backward in time to 1:17 p.m. on June 16, 1997, when my mother and I discovered Tawney's lifeless body steps from her pool, "one last stop and then you're home free."


Chapter 2

In Hollywood, there are blondes and there are blondes. There are the breathless baby-voiced gee whiz, mister Marilyn blondes, held up high like empty trophies. There are the platinum-hued Harlow blondes-striking and remote, never natural. There's the Blonde Next Door, who everyone loves as a child when she's friends with an alien, or the little kid sister. But then she grows up, a trick no one asked for. There are sunny, friendly blondes everyone likes to see happy but loves to see dumped, those poor little never could keep a man blondes whose heartbreak always makes the front page. There are Hitchcock's icy blonde sufferers, the curves-everywhere blonde spilling out of her bra, the butt-of-the-joke blondes, the power blondes begging to be taken down a notch, the blondes who go out like a light, not a survivor's bone in their bodies, the blondes who make the prettiest corpses.

None of them held a candle to the Hurricane Blonde.

"All right, everyone," I said, my voice froggy as I jammed the bus into park, releasing the hydraulics with a friendly sigh. "Last stop."

As my riders descended the stairs—still giggly and tipsy—I checked my lipstick in the rearview mirror, thumbing away little clumps of red as I avoided eye contact with our destination: the three-story Spanish Colonial down the street.

The June my sister died, the trees lining her street flowered in one last splendor before summer set in. Twenty years later, the jacaranda still stood guard over Tawney’s Olympic-size swimming pool, drooping with the purple blossoms. All these years later, and it still looked as it had when she lived there. It made it possible to believe Tawney might still pull up in her white Porsche, cranky and snappish after a fourteen-hour shoot. The Jacaranda House was waiting for her to come home.

That made two of us.

The bus swayed as my final rider made his way down the stairs, grunting as he half-hopped to the pavement below. I took one last glance at myself in the mirror, fingers tracing the slight lines around my mouth. Tawney died before aging had become a concern; no sisterly words of advice for the best tricks to keep time at bay, Pond’s cream, Salmon, I swear by it. Trust me.

"Showtime," I whispered, yanking my keys from the ignition, trying to put a bounce in my step I didn’t really feel as I descended from the bus.

My group formed a semicircle on the sidewalk in front of the Jacaranda House, and two of the younger riders turned to snap selfies in front of it, pink tongues extended. Everyone avoided the faint fuchsia stain on the pavement, a leftover from the early years when fan-brought bouquets rotted in the sun until they were etched on the asphalt.

"Here we are. Our final stop." I paused, glanced around. A few tourists watched me with varying degrees of discretion. One, a white man in his forties wearing a baseball cap, who had come by himself—fucking creepy—stared at me with naked curiosity.

I’d learned long ago that part of my tour’s appeal was an experience with Salma Lowe: daughter of Hollywood royalty, former wild-child starlet, tabloid fixture turned up-close confidante of murder. They didn’t want the truth. They wanted their money’s worth.

They wanted a show.

I cleared my throat. "On June 16, 1997, Tawney Lowe, also known as the Hurricane Blonde, was mur-murd"—I coughed twice, spit it out—"strangled to death by persons unknown. No one has ever been charged with her death. At 1:16p.m., after lunch with our mother, I rang her doorbell—there—" I craned my head over the top of my riders, gesturing at the front door. Every head turned with my finger, as though tugged.

The top of Tawney’s Juliet balcony above the front door was visible over the privacy hedges my sister planted after a paparazzo made five figures off a shot of her sunning topless. I could picture her stepping onto it, frowning down at me in her favorite mismatched bikini, mouthing, as she had a million times: Door’s unlocked.

For a moment, the feeling was so real that my throat closed, the wind knocked out of me.