American Beauty (6 page)

“As we all know,” Sam began, “this year Stefanie and Pashima are giving the big graduation party.”

“Fuck Stefanie!” someone yelled, and the crowd booed in support.

Sam waved a hand to silence the noise. “Indeed. Parker, give me that club!”

Everyone cheered; Sam took the thick wooden stick from Parker and whacked the piñata with all her might. She wasn’t one of those girls who lived at L.A. Fitness, but there was more than muscle mass fueling her. There was fury. After three smashing blows, the papier-mache schoolhouse shattered. Instead of candy flying out, tiny plastic dolls scattered over the deck. They were all, oddly, headless.

Sam scooped one up. Written on its little T-shirt was the name “Stefanie, ” just as she had ordered. On the back were three letters: R.I.P. She chucked the headless doll over the side of the yacht. Dead in the water. Just like Stefanie would be at her party. Well, at least socially, which was sometimes worse than the real thing.

Sexy Blue Star

T
he yacht had docked at midnight; it was now nearly one in the morning. It occurred to Cammie that she must really, really love Adam. The proof was that they were zipping along the 10 freeway in Adam’s mother’s green Saturn. A
Saturn.

Adam’s right hand caressed her thigh. “You still want to do this tonight?”

This
being “confront her father.” Cammie knew he’d still be awake. He could never sleep when he returned from a business trip.

Did she still want to do it? Maybe she should just drag Adam up to her bedroom to make wild monkey love instead of dredging up the past. Sex was easier than dealing with emotions. Plus, she was so much better at it.

They’d talked about her mom on the boat. A little. Then she’d downed three cosmopolitans and spent the balance of the night dancing and partying.

“Cam?” Adam prompted again.

For a while, Cammie had wondered if her mother had ended her own life because she would rather be dead than be Cammie’s mother. It was a heartbreaking notion; confirmation that on some level, Cammie wasn’t sufficiently lovable. Now, with the information that Adam had brought to her, Cammie felt closer than ever to proving that her mother’s death hadn’t been a suicide or the result of some drunken accident.

“Adam?” She shifted in her seat.

“Yeah?”

“Is it nuts to think that Sam’s mom and my dad murdered my mom?”

Saying it aloud certainly made it sound nuts.

Adam’s knuckles tightened on the steering wheel. “You don’t really think—”

“I think it’s possible.” She rushed on, afraid that if she stopped talking, the words would never come out. “You read the same police report. Sam’s mom was on the yacht that night. My dad never told me about that. Then she moved away right after. Why? Why would Sam’s mother do that to her own daughter?”

“Well, a whole lot of reasons that aren’t
murder.
” Adam shifted to the center lane and accelerated—there was no traffic on the 10; it was a rare, satisfying feeling to be cruising along at the actual speed limit.

“Just think about it,” Cammie urged. “She never calls, never writes; she just pretends Sam doesn’t exist.”

“Still, Cammie. Jeez. That’s quite an accusation.”

“It’s possible.”

“Yeah, I know, but still … this isn’t one of your dad’s TV shows. It’s not going to tie up in a little bundle in sixty commercial-free minutes.”

Cammie sat up and tossed her curls angrily. “Don’t fucking patronize me. I mean it. My father is ruthless. Everyone knows it. He’ll do anything to get what he wants. He’ll do anything.”

“You’re talking about murder.”

“
Anything,
” she repeated. Tears sprang to her eyes and she dug her nails into her hands so keep herself from crying. “My mom loved me. I know she did. She would never, ever have left me unless …”

Adam draped his right arm around her. “I know how much it hurt you. I really do.”

She didn’t trust herself to say anything. Adam wanted to protect her from her fears, guard her from harm. It was so sweet. But every now and then, Cammie struggled with an ugly truth: Sometimes she didn’t want sweet. She wanted tough, or dangerous, or just plain bad. She knew this was fucked up. She was
trying
not to want that anymore. Because Cammie almost always got what she wanted. Except when it came to love.

“When we get back to my house, my dad should be there.” Cammie went on. “He’s not going to avoid me,” she reached up and grabbed Adam’s hand, which was resting over her shoulder. “Will you please, please help me?”

Adam pulled the Saturn up to Clark Sheppard’s immense spread high in the hills of Bel-Air. It was so quiet—you couldn’t see or hear noise from another mansion from the parking area. His quick hug gave Cammie the strength to unlock the front door and tap the code into the security system.

Moments later, they were inside—she went straight to the front living room, with Adam close behind. It was crammed with Louis XIV Bergere chairs and Finnish traveling trunks-turned-coffee tables, all atop a soft plush beige Berber carpet. Cammie didn’t expect to find her dad there, but his private home office was attached to the living room. That was her real destination, and the light was on under the door. A good sign.

He hated to be disturbed when he was working, which was why Cammie didn’t bother to knock—just pushed open the big brass double doors.

To her surprise, his brushed-stainless-steel desk chair was empty; the brass Levenger lamp turned to dim. Could her father actually have gone to bed? If so, he was losing his edge—what happened to the Clark Sheppard who read every draft of every script and watched more dailies than his directors?

She gazed around. Nothing. No sign of life. Just a single page of paper sitting in the output tray of her father’s Xerox WorkCentre Pro 785 plain-paper fax machine.

She went to it and read.

The fax was on Apex Agency stationery. In fact, it had been addressed to her. After all the identifying crap at the top—the To/From/Re/Number of Pages—the message was a crystal-clear blow-off:

Cammie Sheppard,

Mr. Clark Sheppard arrived from Europe this evening as scheduled. However, due to his considerable workload, Mr. Sheppard asked us to inform you that he has checked into a bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel, and under no circumstances is he to be disturbed.

Many thanks,

Alleister Blaise

Personal assistant to Mr. Sheppard

“Bullshit,” she declared.

Adam asked what was going on; Cammie gave him the fax, with plenty of editorializing to boot. Her father had arranged a disappearing act so as not to have to deal with her; she was certain of it.

“I’ll be right back,” she told Adam, distractedly. “Wait in the living room.”

She sprinted upstairs to her closet, practically ripping off the clothes that she’d worn on the yacht. What does one wear when one goes to give one’s father hell? She opted for a pair of Imitation of Christ jeans, a tiny lemon-yellow vintage T-shirt she’d picked up with Adam at the Coachella festival in Palm Springs, and Swarovski-studded flip-flops.

She was about to start back downstairs, but stopped to take a deliberate look at the half-finished wall mural of
Charlotte’s Web,
her favorite childhood book. Her mother had died before she could complete it. Cammie had insisted that the mural move from the bedroom of her old house into the mansion. Sometimes she would stare at it, trying to remember the soft sounds of her mother’s intonation of Wilbur, Templeton, and Charlotte.

Now, hard as she tried, Cammie couldn’t remember that voice anymore.

Her hands flew to where her heart would be if she had one—who could afford a heart when going toe-to-toe with Clark Sheppard, the meanest man in Hollywood? If she went with her heart instead of her head, she would lose and her father would win. Hearts were soft sometimes; they made mistakes. Cammie couldn’t afford to take that chance.

One sign of a great hotel is that it’s just as busy at two o’clock in the morning as it is at two o’clock in the afternoon. The Beverly Hills Hotel was even busier—an endless line of cars and SUVs were waiting to pull into the valet roundabout. The three pink sandstone hotel towers were floodlit; tonight, the flagpoles displayed the flags of Ireland, Italy, and Israel, as well as the United States.

Finally, Adam was able to edge the Saturn forward under the roundabout’s pink-and-white-striped canopy. A young uniformed valet with a white-blond buzz cut and startling blue eyes took the keys with the most supercilious of nods, somehow miffed that he’d even have to put a low-end vehicle like a Saturn in the parking area with all the Jaguars, Beemers, and Range Rovers.

Adam took the claim ticket, then held Cammie’s elbow as they as they headed between the famous four columns and up the long red carpet that led to the double glass doors. “You’re sure …?”

“Stop asking me that.”

Cammie slapped a cool smile on her face and went through the pink-and-white lobby, with its elegant seating areas, massive art deco chandelier, and huge potted plants, to the understated front desk, Adam just a step behind her. A uniformed young woman greeted her with a warm “Welcome to the Beverly Hills Hotel. May I help you?”

“Hello, Jara,” Cammie replied sweetly, reading the young woman’s name tag. Jara was very tall and slender, with a glossy chestnut brown bob. Obviously a wannabe model.

Cammie tapped a quizzical finger against her lower lip, deciding how to play the scene. “Wait. Didn’t I see you in
Vogue
last month? Modeling that purple silk-charmeuse Proenza Schouler miniskirt?”

The young woman’s face stretched into a glossy grin, showing off twin dimples. “I wish. I’m still shopping for an agent. How may I help you?”

“Well, Jara, I’m Cammie Sheppard; my
father,
Clark Sheppard, is staying in one of the bungalows, and it’s
urgent
that I see him.”

“One moment, please.” Jara crossed to her manager, a tan guy who bore a startling resemblance to a Ken doll. After a brief conference, she returned. “I’m sorry, but Mr. Sheppard has specified that no one is to disturb him.”

Cammie grabbed the edge of the burnished walnut counter. “Maybe you didn’t hear me.” Her voice remained as calm as before. “I said I’m his
daughter.
”

“I know. But he left very strict instructions.”

“Oh, I see.” Cammie’s voice dripped gentle disdain. “So if I was being
assaulted
, or our
house was burning down,
or his wife was
having a heart attack,
you’d have to call his bungalow and leave a message on his voice mail?”

“Cammie.” She felt Adam’s hand on her arm but shook him off.

“Excuse me, but I’m having a little chat with Jara the wanna-be model. Now, where were we, Jara? Oh yes, you were about to tell me what bungalow my father is in.”

Jara handed Cammie a heavy sheet of embossed hotel stationery. “May I suggest that you leave a note for him? I’ll have one of the house staff deliver it.”

With a cold smile, Cammie methodically tore the paper into little pieces and let them rain down on Jara’s side of the desk. “Apex Agency gives this establishment hundreds of thousands of dollars a year in business. If you don’t give me that bungalow number, I assure you, not only can you forget about a modeling agent
ever,
but you’ll also end up working the night shift at the Holiday Inn.”

Cammie saw Adam wince. Well, sometimes power was best applied discreetly, and then sometimes stronger measures were called for. Her father had taught her that lesson too.

Jara nodded coolly. “We all admire your father. We respect him. Which is exactly why we are following
his
orders, not yours. Have a lovely evening.” With that, she politely smiled at the next customer, a Sikh gentleman in a turban. “Welcome to the Beverly Hills Hotel. How may I help you?”

Cammie was floored—she
always
struck fear into the hearts of bartenders, bellhops, waiters—pretty much anyone low on the food chain. This bony-ass bitch was not going to thwart her plans. She tried to take Adam’s arm and start back into the lobby, but he didn’t move.

“
Well?
” she challenged.

“First of all, stop ordering me around. It’s ugly, nasty, bitchy, and pretty much all-around uncalled for. Are we clear?”

Oops. Gone too far.

“Sorry.” She put her hand on his. “I’m just upset. And … and I know what we have to do. There’s a path out back that leads to the bungalows.”

“So?”

“So we knock on doors until we find my dad.”

Adam was incredulous. “Not happening, Cammie. Not at two in the morning because you’ve got an issue with your father.”

Is that all he thought this was? An
issue
?

“Fine. I can do this on my own.”

“We don’t think so.”

Suddenly, two house detectives in impeccable Ted Lapidus suits were on either side of them. One was tall and thin with a short silver brush cut; the other was not much taller than Cammie but half again as wide as Adam … and none of it was fat.

“Miss, we think this would be a good time for you and your companion to go home,” the tall one suggested.

“Do you know who I am?”

“Yes, Miss Sheppard. Which is why we’re going to walk you to the door.”

There was another lesson that Clark had taught her: Know when to retreat. It’s better than being bloodied on the battlefield.

“Fine. We’ll take care it of this morning.”

Five minutes later, they were on their way back to Bel-Air. As Adam drove, Cammie felt a wave of pure exhaustion and was just the tiniest bit ashamed for the way she had acted. Not toward Jara, that stupid bitch, but toward Adam. Why did she always turn on the one person who she was certain actually loved her?

“Adam. I’m sorry.” Her voice was low, sincere. “I hate myself when I treat you like that.”

“I’m not particularly fond of you at those moments, either.” After a silent beat that seemed to go on for an eternity, he relented. “You just had all this adrenaline built up to get into it with your father, and he thwarted you again. I got it.”