Supposedly, James Dean never really died in that car crash back in ’55. Over the ensuing forty-five years, he has been dispatching his fellow co-stars, responsible, perhaps, for the drowning death of Natalie Wood, the fatal stabbing of Sal Mineo and various other endings to other imaginary actors. The reason why he would do this is never satisfactorily established, although different theories are offered at different points in the book.

L. A. newspaper reporter Neil Gulliver becomes involved when a James Dean look-alike (or is he?) appears at a postal stamp dedication ceremony and kills Nico Mercouri, a sixty-ish soap opera actor. Neil and his ex-wife, soap opera sex queen Stephanie (“Stevie”) Marriner are present as well. Devastated at the cold-blooded murder of her father figure and fellow co-star, Stevie makes Neil promise to track down the murderer.

Neil, pliable to his ex’s wishes and also sensing a hot story, agrees and turns to his own father figure, Augie Fowler, for help and history. Since Augie himself once had a bit part in the James Dean movie, Giant, he tells an astonished Neil that there are those who doubt Dean’s death. Augie produces others whose stories also vary from the official version. It later becomes clearer that those once associated with Dean are now dying at an increased rate and Neil is fearful for Augie’s life. He and Stevie set out for Dean’s hometown in Fairmont, Indiana, for the final, confusing confrontation, some truths and some more unanswered questions.

The author does excel at constructing runaway sentences “The morning sky is as monotonous at this hour as all those clusters of glass and stone office buildings that rise like monuments to the quiet college town this was as recent as the 1920s, an oasis of education in the middle of nowhere, a clue to the future among the scant few alleys of commerce and vast open dirt fields for sale dirt cheap by real estate speculators who could see beyond the Beverly Hills to the east that was barely emerging from its own sleepy town status.” and has mastered time travel. (In one scene Neil and Stevie arrive at 5:30 in the evening, foil an abduction attempt, followed by a high speed pursuit and crash, yet when Stevie checks the time it’s - 5:30 in the evening.)

The body count is high, the entertainment value is low, unless you count reminiscing oldsters name dropping about the golden days of Hollywood. Stevie is the stereotypic beautiful dumb blonde. Although it is stated many times how smart she truly is, it is hard to believe of a character who routinely says “I and you” and distracts a mad bomber by showing him her breasts.

While many a mystery begins by proposing “What if?”, this book does such a poor job of setting up the scenario that soon you are asking instead, “Who cares?” If you’re hungry for Hollywood gossip, go buy a People magazine, not The James Dean Affair.

--K. W. Becker