Sheri Cobb South by Babes in Tinseltown

really shouldn’t be here. I know you’ve had a terrible shock, so why don’t I escort you home, and we’ll forget the whole thing.”
    “Hey, wait a minute! I brought Miss Foster here, and I can take her home!” Mitch jabbed his thumb into his chest to emphasize the point.
    Kincaid threw a cursory glance at Mitch, then took Frankie tenderly by the arm. “No, I think you’d better return that vehicle to its rightful owner before it’s reported as stolen. Watch your step, Miss Foster. I wouldn’t want you to trip over the curb in the dark.”
    Frankie gave Mitch what she thought was a reassuring smile, but received only a glare in return. Miffed, she turned back to the young policeman and bestowed a dazzling smile upon him.
    “Your boyfriend appears to be the jealous type,” Kincaid said, opening the passenger door for her.
    “My what? Oh, Mitch. He isn’t my boyfriend. He’s just someone I met on the train.” Something, either an innate sense of honesty or a pang of conscience, compelled Frankie to add, “He’s been awfully helpful to me since then, but he seems to have appointed himself my watchdog.”
    Mitch and his borrowed van were soon left behind as Kincaid steered the squad car through the gates and onto the road. “So, what gave the two of you the idea to go poking about the studio after closing?”
    “It was my idea. I’d been to Monumental Pictures earlier to apply for a job, and I overheard an argument between Mr. Cohen and his brother. He said that Maurice would take over the studio over his dead body.”
    “And so you decided it must have been murder. Surely if they knew you’d overheard a death threat, they wouldn’t have offered you a job,” pointed out the policeman, braking to a stop as the traffic light turned red .
    “They didn’t. At least, not then. They, er, didn’t know I was standing in the hall at the time.”
    “Eavesdropping, eh?”
    “Not on purpose!” Frankie protested hastily.
    “Maybe not. Still, people say things alone with their family that they would never say in front of strangers. And in the case of Arthur and Maurice Cohen, it’s well known in Hollywood circles that they fought like cats and dogs, except when one or the other of them was threatened. Then they circled the wagons.”
    “Threatened?” echoed Frankie, eyebrows raised.
    The light turned green, and Officer Kincaid pressed his foot to the accelerator. “I’m not saying anyone threatened either one of them with bodily harm. But rival studios, bad reviews—” He shrugged. “It’s a stressful life, or so I’ve heard. It’s no wonder he had a stroke. The only real surprise is that he didn’t have one before now.”
    “Are they sure it’s a stroke?”
    “They’re sure enough. There’s no way to know for sure without an autopsy.”
    “Will there be one?”
    “Not unless the family requests it.” Seeing Frankie’s eyes light up, he hastened to add, “And why should they? They’re satisfied that Arthur Cohen suffered a stroke.”
    Frankie had nothing to say to this, but she thought it very convenient that Maurice Cohen, who had the most to gain by his brother’s death, was also in a position to see that the body was not examined too closely.
    “What other family does he have?” she asked at last. “Besides Maurice, I mean.”
    “There’s his wife—his widow, I should say—Letitia Lamont.”
    “ Letitia Lamont ?” Frankie exclaimed, the producer’s death momentarily forgotten. “The silent film star?”
    “That’s the one. You’ve seen her work?”
    “When I was a little girl, I saw her in Knights of the Round Table . She was so beautiful as Guinevere, and her scenes with Lancelot were so romantic.” She giggled. “I was too young to understand that she was married to King Arthur. He was so much older, I thought he was her father.”
    They talked of inconsequential things for the rest of the drive, of films they had seen and actors they admired, and by the time