The Hurricane Blonde

Informationen zum Autor Halley Sutton Klappentext Hollywood is a sickness. Few people understand this better than Salma Lowe, progeny of Hollywood royalty and a former child star. But when she's plunged back into the dangerous glitter of Hollywood after discovering a young actress's body, her search for the truth will take her deep into the rot of the film industry's past and present. Leseprobe 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 Angelesthat mirage of fame and success and good fortunerolled up into one. Now, nearly a hundred years into her residencyancient 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 goosebumpsa 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 commandeven 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 e...

Autorentext

Halley Sutton

Klappentext

*AN INSTANT USA TODAY* BESTSELLER

"A murder mystery that feels as magnetic, timeless, and inextricable from Hollywood legend as the Black Dahlia . . . There's no one better at writing the dark side of Hollywood than Halley Sutton." —Ashley Winstead, author of In My Dreams I Hold a Knife**

Salma Lowe, progeny of Hollywood royalty and a once-promising child actor, spends her days as a guide for the Stars Six Feet Under tour, leading tourists through Los Angeles’s star-studded avenues to 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 Salma 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? Launching her own investigation, Salma plunges back into the salacious but seductive world of Hollywood. And what she’ll find is that old secrets may just be worth killing for.

Leseprobe
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…