On a cold December morning in 1935, Hollywood woke to shocking news: Thelma Todd—beloved comedic actress, business owner, and star of the silver screen—had been found dead inside her car. The 29-year-old, known affectionately as “The Ice Cream Blonde,” was discovered slumped over the wheel of her Lincoln Phaeton in a garage above the Pacific Coast Highway. She was still wearing the blue evening gown from a party two nights earlier. Her death would launch one of Hollywood’s most enduring mysteries.
Thelma’s story wasn’t just a cautionary tale of fame cut short—it was a study in ambition. Born in Lawrence, Massachusetts, she had a sharp mind, winning beauty pageants and planning to be a schoolteacher before the film industry swept her west. Hollywood quickly realized she had more to offer than a pretty face. With impeccable timing and a knack for slapstick, she became a staple in Hal Roach comedies, trading lines with the Marx Brothers, Laurel and Hardy, and Buster Keaton. But Thelma wanted more than laughs. She was clever, driven, and eager to build a life beyond the screen.
In 1934, she partnered with director Roland West and opened Thelma Todd’s Sidewalk Café in the Pacific Palisades. Nestled along the coast in the still-developing Castellammare neighborhood, the café was glamorous, ambitious, and a hit with Hollywood’s elite. Upstairs, Todd and West lived in adjoining apartments separated only by a sliding wooden door. Their relationship was complicated—romantic, professional, co-dependent—but their shared vision for the café was clear. With white linen tables and seafood flown in from the East Coast, it was more than a restaurant—it was a statement.
On the night of December 14, 1935, Thelma attended a party thrown in her honor at the Café Trocadero by actor Ida Lupino and her parents. She was charming, vibrant, and all business—touting her café to fellow guests, even placing bets on who would show up the next night. But the mood reportedly shifted when she saw her ex-husband, Pat DiCicco, in attendance. Their marriage had been abusive and short-lived, and they had divorced just before her partnership with West began. Witnesses claimed the atmosphere between them was tense. Lupino would later recall that Thelma appeared unusually downcast. After the party, her chauffeur, Ernest Peters, waited hours for her to return to the car. She finally emerged just before 4 a.m., quiet and withdrawn. Rather than be dropped off at her door, Thelma asked to be let out near the foot of the stairs that led to the café. The night air was bitter, the stairs long, the roads dark.
The next morning, Thelma’s maid, Mae Whitehead, found her body. She had gone to retrieve Todd’s car from the garage above the café, as she did each morning. But when she opened the passenger door, she found her employer slumped over the wheel, lifeless. The coroner ruled the cause of death carbon monoxide poisoning. There were no signs of trauma, no bruises, no wounds—just a trickle of blood near her mouth and the faint smell of exhaust. The assumption was simple: locked out of her apartment and unwilling to wake West, Thelma may have sought shelter in the garage, turned on the car to keep warm, and been overtaken by fumes.
But Hollywood didn’t accept that explanation easily. The media exploded with speculation. Whispers of mob hits circulated—some blamed DiCicco, others claimed gangster Lucky Luciano had her killed for refusing to host gambling at her café. There were rumors of a staged death scene, a mysterious phone call supposedly made by Thelma after her time of death, and reports that West had confessed to the crime on his deathbed. The case was further sensationalized by tabloids and later books, like Hollywood Babylon, which painted Todd’s life in lurid, often inaccurate strokes. Despite weeks of headlines and a circus-like inquest, no charges were ever filed. The official verdict remained: accidental death.
Four days after her death, Roland West reopened the café under the new name Chez Roland, claiming he was honoring Thelma’s memory. But business faltered. The sparkle was gone. Her name, once a draw, now evoked tragedy. West brought in a new hostess, added nightclub acts, and eventually remarried. Years later, the building changed hands again—becoming home to a Catholic production company and later remodeled into offices. Thelma’s presence faded from the property, the etched glass doors with the name “Joya’s”—the private club she once dreamed of—quietly removed.
But her memory has never truly left. The café still stands, the garage remains, and the hills of Castellammare continue to echo with questions. What really happened to Thelma Todd that night? Was it a tragic accident or something more sinister? While the case is officially closed, the legend endures. Todd’s ashes rest in Lawrence, Massachusetts, alongside her mother. Her legacy, too often reduced to her mysterious death, deserves to be remembered for her talent, vision, and tenacity in an industry that rarely allowed women the freedom she carved out for herself.
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