{"product_id":"the-hurricane-blonde-isbn-9780593421895","title":"The Hurricane Blonde","description":"\u003cb\u003eAN INSTANT \u003ci\u003eUSA TODAY\u003c\/i\u003e BESTSELLER\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"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 \u003ci\u003eIn My Dreams I Hold a Knife\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSalma 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe 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.\u003cb\u003eOne of \u003ci\u003ePaste Magazine\u003c\/i\u003e's Must-Read Thrillers of Summer 2023\u003cbr\u003eOne of \u003ci\u003eBook Riot\u003c\/i\u003e's Best Cold Case Mystery Books\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\"This is a book I snapped up in a beachside bookstore and drank down during my summer vacation last year. If you love stories about sordid, Hollywood history, this is the book for you . . . This novel’s juicy, a little noir, and quite the ride.\" —\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eBook Riot\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"[Sutton] gives readers the twists and turns expected of the genre while also offering a wonderful portrayal of L.A. over the years that’s reminiscent of Taylor Jenkins Reid’s \u003ci\u003eThe Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo . . . \u003c\/i\u003eSophomore novels can be tough to pull off, but Sutton’s is a stunner—in Technicolor.\" —\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eWashington Independent Review of Books\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"While the twisty, L.A. true crime-like story [is] enough of a hook, Sutton’s critique of toxic Hollywood culture add[s] a bow to this splashy noir bubbling with rage.\" —\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Seattle Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\"Enthralling . . . Sutton indicts our culture for its fixation on beautiful young women who died at the hands of others.”\u003cb\u003e —\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Is a tragic death the only way to cement one's legacy in Hollywood? Halley Sutton delivers a twisty rumination of this question.” —\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003ePopSugar\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"The dark side of Hollywood is exposed alongside the glitz and glamour in Sutton’s second novel. . . . Filled with twists and turns . . . Perfect for book clubs and all public library shelves where thrillers are popular (and where aren’t they?).\"\u003cb\u003e —\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Sutton’s gritty sophomore effort…immerses readers in the underbelly of Hollywood.…[The] atmosphere, plus intriguing true Hollywood lore about Marilyn Monroe, Sharon Tate, and other stars who’ve died tragically, keeps the pages turning. This is an acid-washed treat for fans of L.A. noir.\" —\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Sexy, twisted and dark, \u003ci\u003eThe Hurricane Blonde\u003c\/i\u003e is both a gripping thriller and a scathing indictment of the industry of celebrity. Halley Sutton nails modern Hollywood Noir.\" \u003cb\u003e—Janelle Brown, author of \u003ci\u003eI'll Be You\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\"The Hurricane Blonde\u003c\/i\u003e is a stunning achievement. Sutton has managed to create a murder mystery that feels as magnetic, timeless, and inextricable from Hollywood legend as the Black Dahlia. And yet \u003ci\u003eHurricane\u003c\/i\u003e is more than simply a tragedy about a beautiful woman on the silver screen who met a grisly end—it’s also, profoundly, a book about ruinous grief and letting go of the myths that have harmed us, as individuals and as a culture, no matter how glittering those myths may be. There’s no one better at writing the dark side of Hollywood than Halley Sutton.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Ashley Winstead, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Last Housewife\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003ci\u003eThe Hurricane Blonde\u003c\/i\u003e is a vivid, chilling noir steeped in L.A. sunshine and Hollywood lore. Sutton gives us a backstage pass to a former child actor’s investigation of her sister’s death—revealing a world that is both ruthlessly cruel and dazzlingly irresistible.\" \u003cb\u003e—Sara Sligar, author of \u003ci\u003eTake Me Apart\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003ci\u003eThe Hurricane Blonde \u003c\/i\u003eis the biting, brilliant nepo baby noir you didn't know you needed. Halley Sutton's sophomore thriller reads like a riveting true-crime tour with your smartest, most macabre friend, rendered with such evocative detail that you'll feel California sun on your face and feminist rage in your heart with every turn of the page.\" \u003cb\u003e—Layne Fargo, author of \u003ci\u003eThey Never Learn\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\"The Hurricane Blonde\u003c\/i\u003e is a splashy thrill ride through the dark side of Hollywood. Sutton has delivered a glitzy noir and a gripping crime story. Empowering, engaging, and a worthy addition to the Los Angeles canon.\" \u003cb\u003e—Ivy Pochoda, author of \u003ci\u003eThese Women \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eSing Her Down\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"If \u003ci\u003eHollywood Babylon\u003c\/i\u003e had a hook, it would be \u003ci\u003eThe Hurricane Blonde\u003c\/i\u003e. Peopled with all the heroes and villains you \u003ci\u003ethink\u003c\/i\u003e you know, this engrossing thriller captures LA in all her guises and packs a chilling message about the inherent victimhood of female stardom.\" \u003cb\u003e—Eliza Jane Brazier, author of \u003ci\u003eGirls and Their Horses\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Sutton's incisive writing captures both the allure and dark side of LA. A must-read for anyone drawn to Hollywood true crime.\" \u003cb\u003e—Vera Kurian, author of \u003ci\u003eNever Saw Me Coming\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePrevious Praise for Halley Sutton\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A racy and hard-to-put-down piece of neo-noir.\" —\u003ci\u003eWashington Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Sutton’s assured and moody prose often channels the best classic LA noir, but this deliciously tawdry and twisty tale is entirely her own. Readers who savor crime stories featuring complex, unapologetic women will be hooked. A scorching, knockout noir from an author to watch.\" —\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews \u003c\/i\u003e(starred review) \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Halley Sutton's \u003ci\u003eThe Lady Upstairs\u003c\/i\u003e feels like an instant classic...[and] full of shocking twists and turns that will leave you gasping — and turning the pages.” —\u003ci\u003ePopsugar\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Halley Sutton skillfully melds a feminist noir approach with a contemporary femme fatale in her debut…Sutton's sharp prose and keen eye for noir situations elevate \u003ci\u003eThe Lady Upstairs\u003c\/i\u003e.” —\u003ci\u003eShelf Awareness\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Come for the atmosphere; stay for the clever twists.\" —\u003ci\u003eCrimeReads\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eHalley Sutton\u003c\/b\u003e the author of \u003ci\u003eThe Lady Upstairs\u003c\/i\u003e. A writer and editor, she is a Pitch Wars mentor and holds a bachelor's degree in creative writing from the University of California Santa Cruz, and a master's degree in writing from Otis College of Art and Design. \u003cb\u003eChapter 1\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe pretty blonde would be dead in three minutes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"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 \u003ci\u003ehandsy\u003c\/i\u003e, skimming her palms over her bodice. My murder tourists laughed, nudged each other. \u003ci\u003eYes, yes, we know.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStars 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I told him I was meeting my sister. But he wouldn't leave me alone. A \u003ci\u003egentleman\u003c\/i\u003e.\" 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI'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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow, nearly a hundred years into her residency—ancient in this city, which preferred its buildings like its women: shiny, new, \u003ci\u003eyoung—\u003c\/i\u003ethe 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the end, she \u003ci\u003ehad \u003c\/i\u003ebrought the Black Dahlia fame.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMelany paused, letting us sit in our imaginations, wondering. Then she shivered, fluttering her fingers over actual goosebumps raised on her bare arms.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Who knows what might have happened to me if he hadn't been such a \u003ci\u003egentleman\u003c\/i\u003e,\" Melany said. \"Maybe I would've left while it was still daylight. Maybe I would've lived a long life. We'll never know.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI knew that better than anyone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMelany 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMelany stared at me, eyebrows raised.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eEarth to Salma\u003c\/i\u003e. I cleared my throat. \"Any questions?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Yes?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"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.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe 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.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen 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. \u003ci\u003eShe had everything until she didn't\u003c\/i\u003e. The Marilyn Monroes, the Jayne Mansfields, the Thelma Todds and Jean Harlows and Dorothy Strattens—none of whom lived past thirty-six.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMelany hovered near my elbow as I handed out the final token. I let the doors slide shut—that air con \u003ci\u003edid \u003c\/i\u003efeel good—then said, \"Goosebumps on command. Impressive.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Really?\" Melany's face lit up, pink as a shrimp. \"You were impressed?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI winced. Actors were like puppies, eager to soak up praise and attention. And like puppies, there was something appealing and dangerous about all that \u003ci\u003etell me I'm good and I'll follow you anywhere \u003c\/i\u003etrust. It could get a girl in trouble. \"You made Vivienne proud.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe 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 \u003ci\u003ealready \u003c\/i\u003edidn't get it, but maybe there's \u003ci\u003eanother \u003c\/i\u003epart, and if Vivienne freaking Powell tells him I'm a good actor, Cal will reconsider—\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Cal?\" My purse dropped onto the asphalt. A lip gloss and a tampon, identical shades of pink, bounced into the street. \"Cal Turner?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMelany 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.'\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRestricting sides-script excerpts actors used for auditions-was not the worst rumor I'd heard about Cal. \u003ci\u003eThe most dangerous director in Hollywood\u003c\/i\u003e, 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"So? Will you?\" Melany's face was eager, like a little girl promised a toy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI'd always been a coward when it came to conflict.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI 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.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMelany 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?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe gum fell to the back of my throat. I coughed. \"Miss it?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I used to watch \u003ci\u003eMorty's House\u003c\/i\u003e as a kid, you know. You were good. You were \u003ci\u003efunny\u003c\/i\u003e.\" She hesitated for a moment, then said, almost shyly: \"\u003ci\u003eIron Prayer \u003c\/i\u003eis my favorite film.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIf I had a dollar for every time someone told me my parents' film \u003ci\u003eIron Prayer\u003c\/i\u003e was their favorite movie- Well, in a way, my family \u003ci\u003edid\u003c\/i\u003e have a dollar, more than a dollar, for every time I'd heard it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut \u003ci\u003eMorty's House\u003c\/i\u003e 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: \u003ci\u003eGosh, Mr. Morty, don't you know what to say to make a girl feel special!\u003c\/i\u003e with an eye roll so big, I had to ice my forehead between takes. \u003ci\u003eMorty's House\u003c\/i\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt had also been the only time in my childhood when I'd had friends, real sleepover-truth-or-dare-MASH-until-morning friends.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMelany 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.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEven 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHow 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. \u003ci\u003eYou won't believe what Sloppy Salma did now!\u003c\/i\u003e You stop acting when you sell more magazines than movie tickets.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMelany just didn't know it yet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"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.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe didn't need my good word anyway. She was Cal Turner's type exactly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI was always jumpy at this part of my tour.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs the bus rocked, I practiced my final monologue of the day. \u003ci\u003eTawney 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.\u003c\/i\u003e But no, that was pulling a punch. \u003ci\u003eTawney Lowe was murdered in the hours between...\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eMurder\u003c\/i\u003e. The word stuck in my throat like a clot of phlegm.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eTwenty years ago, my sister, Tawney Lowe-also known as the Hurricane Blonde-was strangled to death. Her murder has never been solved.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI'd said it before. What was one more time?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI 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.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eChapter 2\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn Hollywood, there are blondes and there are \u003ci\u003eblondes\u003c\/i\u003e. 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 \u003ci\u003eloves \u003c\/i\u003eto see dumped, those \u003ci\u003epoor little never could keep a man\u003c\/i\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNone of them held a candle to the Hurricane Blonde.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"All right, everyone,\" I said, my voice froggy as I jammed the bus into park, releasing the hydraulics with a friendly sigh. \"Last stop.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e That made two of us.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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, \u003ci\u003ePond’s cream, Salmon, I swear by it. Trust me.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e They wanted a show.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e For a moment, the feeling was so real that my throat closed, the wind knocked out of me.","brand":"G.P. Putnam's Sons","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304309870821,"sku":"NP9780593421895","price":18.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593421895.jpg?v=1767739878","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-hurricane-blonde-isbn-9780593421895","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}