American Blonde (25 page)

“No.”

“How surprising.” She inhaled, exhaled, dropped the cigarette, grinding it into the soil with one delicate shoe. Then she stood and walked away, leaving the book behind on the bench. She paused, turned, arched an eyebrow at me. It was then I noticed that she was wearing less makeup than usual. In the sunlight, she looked years younger, much closer to thirty than forty. “Are you coming?”

I jumped up and followed her. We twisted down one path and another until we were at Rose Cottage. She opened the front door without a key, and inside everything was decorated like spring—flowing curtains in pastel colors, framed pictures on the wall, everything coordinated, simple yet tasteful. An enormous bouquet of lilies took up most of the living room coffee table. Miss Lloyd asked if I wanted anything to drink, and I glanced at the bar against one wall, fully stocked with liquor. I wondered if Rockhaven made a practice of supplying their famously sober movie star guests with alcohol, or if Ophelia had supplied it herself. I asked for water and sat on the sofa while she disappeared into the kitchen.

Then Miss Lloyd was back, handing me a glass, perching on the edge of the settee, one perfectly manicured hand propped in the air, cigarette dangling into space.

“The lilies are beautiful. Are they from an admirer?”

“Yes. They’re from me. My favorite flower. The Chinese say, ‘When you have only two pennies in the world, buy a loaf of bread with one, and a lily with the other.’” She swirled her drink. “I’m afraid I didn’t kill her.”

“I wasn’t accusing you.”

“I know. But you were snooping just the same. If I were going to kill her, I certainly wouldn’t have done it in my own home. It’s going to be enormously difficult to get anyone to come to the house again, and I’m fond of parties. I’m also fond of not looking like the world’s worst hostess in front of the entire world. ‘Don’t go to Ophelia’s. Unless you want to leave in a hearse.’ No thank you.” She swirled her glass again and took a drink.

On my way to the car, the arched gate to Rockhaven swung open and another automobile rolled up the drive, gravel snapping under the tires. Behind the wheel was Felix Roland, window down, dashingly handsome, silver hair slicked into place. I watched as he parked, swung out, and practically loped toward Rose Cottage. He wore gray slacks and a crisp white shirt, but no jacket, no tie. I turned and followed him, creeping around the trees, careful to stay a good distance behind.

She met him at the door. Immediately, their mouths were locked in one of the hungriest kisses I’d ever seen, as if they were two animals trying to swallow each other whole. He backed her inside, the door slamming closed behind them.

At home, I sorted through my messages.
Butch Dawkins called
, Flora had written, along with the number for the Dunbar Hotel. I checked my watch, picked up the paper, stared at the Dunbar Hotel number until I had it memorized, and dialed the exchange.

“Dunbar Hotel.”

“Butch Dawkins, please.”

“One minute, and I’ll connect you.”

The phone clicked and then rang and rang. On the sixth ring, he answered.

“It’s Velva Jean. I got your message.”

“Hey, I wanted to talk to you about the record. If you’re free and willing, I’d love to have you be a part of it.”

“Just tell me what you need me to do.”

“If you got time, I want you to give me a song. I’m picturing a record about loss and about hope and the dark places in between. I know you got things to say about that, and I want to hear them. Other folks will too.”

I don’t know how to write that, I thought. I’d never been one to write what I was in, especially when what I was in was a dark place. I usually had to be on the other side of things to describe them.

Butch said, “You just give me what you got. I ain’t asking for more than that. And if you can’t, it’s okay. There’ll be other times down the road.”

“I’d like to. I’ll try.”

We talked about his ideas, about the schedule, when we would meet and go over the music, when he might need me to come to the studio. Then we said good-bye, just like a couple of old friends.

I was running late. Sam would be there soon. Still, I sat another minute or two, trying to push away the feeling that somewhere, a door had closed when I wasn’t paying attention.

T
he Villa Nova, on Sunset, was a hole-in-the-wall Italian place with a high, slanted roof and plenty of dark corners. The booths were red and curved and the air smelled warm and heavy. Sam sat looking at me, one arm hugging the back of the booth. The waiter appeared and when he asked us what we wanted to drink, I said to Sam, “You order for me.”

He asked for two whiskeys, and then we ordered our food, and when the whiskey came, we clinked glasses and drank, the liquid burning all the way down. Sam nursed his along, but I threw mine back, as I’d seen my brother do, because the taste was so awful, and then I asked for another. Sam’s eyebrows shot up and he said, “Easy, tiger. I’d like this evening to last longer than the next ten minutes.”

We talked about my new film, about his new picture, about the Black Dahlia case, which Sam was following closely. We talked about where I came from and where he came from—pleasant, easy, interesting conversation. I thought of telling him about Rockhaven and the Dell Rapids Orphanage, and the things Dr. Murdoch had said, but instead I asked him about his parents, his brother, his childhood, and his life before MGM.

The food arrived—two bowls of spaghetti, the steam rising off them. With the first bite, I realized how hungry I was. I concentrated on eating, and then at some point I set my fork down. “There’s something I need to ask you.”

“Uh-oh.” He pushed his plate away, tipped his glass to see how much was left. “Should I order another drink first?”

“Maybe you should get one for both of us.” I decided I liked drinking. It made me feel lighter and freer, almost like being a little girl again, back before anything sad had happened.

Sam waved down the waiter, ordering another round. People crowded into the restaurant. I loved each one of them because they brought bustle and color and life, and it was good to think about life right now.

“I wish I knew something we could do to pass the time.” He leaned in as if he were going to kiss me. I studied his mouth, curled up at one corner, and remembered what his lips felt like against mine. The memory was so vivid, so warm, that I could almost feel them. Suddenly, I wanted him to kiss me. Suddenly, I was thinking about a lot more than kissing.

The waiter set the drinks down between us, and just like that, Sam pulled away. He toasted me, drank, rested his chin on his hand. “All right, Pipes.”

“Tell me about you and Mudge.”

He lit a cigarette, and then a second, and then a third, making a show of smoking three at once. Then he stubbed one out and then another. He raised the remaining one to his lips, inhaled deeply, exhaled, and said, “She paid me to adapt a book she optioned. The idea was if Mayer didn’t agree to produce it, she’d produce it outside of MGM. She said once a girl hit thirty, she had to start looking out for herself.”

“A Woman of Means.”

“She told you?”

“I read the script.”

“And?”

“It’s very good.”

“Ah, flattery. My favorite aphrodisiac.” He winked. “She was giving me notes, not something I usually appreciate from actors, but she was smart. Not necessarily well read, as I’m sure you know, but she knew what worked on camera, and she was honest. It was important to her that the work read honestly too. She said there was enough fakery in Hollywood without printing lies on the page.”

“And when you weren’t working together?”

He shrugged, helpless. “She was gorgeous, and I had a reputation to uphold.”

“Mmm,” was all I managed to say. My insides had gone prickly, even though I knew they had no right to.

“That was when they first brought me out here, a couple of months before I met a certain girl singer.” He smiled. I smiled back, waiting. “It was one night, during a lapse with Nigel.”

“And that was it?”

“And that was it.”

“Thanks. For telling me.”

“You’re welcome.” He stubbed the last cigarette out. “You make a man want to say things he wouldn’t normally say.”

“Sam . . .”

“I’m not asking for anything in return. Not right now.”

I took a breath. “I haven’t been part of a couple—a real couple—in a very long time. I’ve never dated in the traditional way. I got married when I was sixteen, and divorced when I was nineteen, and I’ve lost my heart one or two times since then, but I don’t know anything about going to dinners and what it’s like to do normal things in a normal world where the world isn’t at war.”

“Los Angeles isn’t exactly a normal world, and you’re not exactly a normal girl.”

“No, I guess not.”

“Before you work up to telling me whatever you’re going to tell me, I have to ask about the Indian.”

“He’s not ‘the Indian.’ He’s part Indian. His name is Butch Dawkins.”

“I have to ask about Mr. Dawkins, then. Where is he in all this?”

“This is about us. He’s nowhere.”

“I’m not sure about that.”

“Butch has always been there, but not there. He’s like a haint—a ghost—that just appears now and then.”

“So is he in a now phase or a then phase?”

Now, then, now, then. Then, then, then.

“Then.”

“Do you love him?”

“I don’t know.” He’d been honest with me, and I wanted to be honest with him.

“Do you love me?”

“I don’t know.” I took a drink and felt the recklessness of my daddy’s people and their people before them surging up from somewhere. “The only thing I know is that this isn’t the time for love. Not right now. Not with all that’s happened.” What would Mudge have done? She would have kissed him anyway and thought things through later. “Does it matter that I don’t know?”

“To me, no. To you, probably.”

We were interrupted by a cough, and the waiter was there to take the plates. He asked if we wanted dessert. Sam looked at me and I said, “Maybe we could take it to go.”

He raised an eyebrow and turned to the waiter. “There’s a five in it for you if you hurry.”

Several minutes later, we were still waiting for the bill. Sam said, “I’m going to embark on a search.”

“While you do that, I’ll use the powder room.”

I hunted through my purse for my lipstick and compact, and walked into the ladies’ lounge, which was a narrow room with one toilet and a sink with a mirror above, cracked at one corner.

On my way out, a man was standing beside the door, big and amiable, arms folded across his chest. He nodded at me and started to move forward. I stepped out of the way, but instead of moving past me, he pushed me back into the bathroom and locked the door. He said, “You’re the actress. Sing me a song, just like you do in the movies.”

His breath was on my face, his hands on my arms, holding me in place. My eyes darted past him, to the soap and towels at the side of the sink, the little wooden stand that sat behind him, a vase with flowers, the door.

“One little sweet song.” As his mouth moved toward me, and his hands slid down my arms, I could smell the alcohol on him. He could have been studio ordered or a friend of the murderer or just some drunk, obnoxious fan.

Then his hand was on mine, and I wiggled my hand so that my fingers intertwined with his. In one swift motion, I pulled hard on those fingers, bending them back to his wrist. I knew enough from self-defense, from my work in France, how to sprain a man’s hand without breaking it, how to take it almost to that point. “Tell me who sent you.”

“Sonofabitch. Let me go.”

I pulled harder on the fingers. “Tell me who sent you.”

We went back and forth like this for about thirty seconds. I pulled harder, right at the breaking point, hovering there. Then just a little harder. It would have been so easy to snap his hand in two, finger by finger.

He dropped to his knees. “No one sent me. I saw your pictures. I wanted you to sing me a song.” He was starting to cry now, and I felt one last surge of anger before I went empty. I let him go and he sank back onto the floor.

He was just a fan, only a fan. I knew from Mudge that they could be as dangerous as anyone else. I took a deep breath and felt relief wash through me. My heart settled. My pulse settled. I pulled a towel from the rack and handed it to him.

“Next time, ask nicely.”

I stepped over him and found Sam outside the door, a box in his hands. He stared past me at the man lying on the floor. “Great mother-of-pearl.” Sam looked at me in what could only be called awe, or shock. “I don’t know whether to kiss you or run like hell.”

In his car, in front of Mudge’s house, Sam said, “And there it is.” We both stared up at its still and silent face, the windows dark, curtains drawn. The house looked as if it were sleeping.

I said, “Aren’t you going to walk me to the door?”

I carried the box from the Villa Nova—some sort of strawberry cake. Sam and I didn’t talk until we were standing on the stoop, my back to the house, his back to the street.

I said, “Aren’t you going to walk me in?”

He kissed me then, as if he’d been waiting for this moment all night, his hands on either side of my face, twining into my hair, tugging at it so that my head tilted back and he could run his lips across my throat. My own hands had gone off without me, dropping the box, doing exactly what they wanted to do. I wanted him, and he knew I wanted him. I wanted his hands and his mouth, and the rest of him. I wanted to fall asleep against him, feeling the warmth, listening to his heartbeat, feeling his skin. I wanted to forget about Mudge and death and MGM and Helen down the hall and how things looked and my good Southern upbringing, as strong as any contract, and what Sweet Fern might say if she could see me. I didn’t want to think at all.

Sam threw the door open, picked me up, and tossed me over his shoulder. He was up the stairs two at a time, my head bobbing upside down. He pushed open the door to one of the guest rooms, then jogged me out of there and down the hall, throwing open another door, and another. “Where the hell am I taking you?”

“Not that one,” I whispered. “Helen.” I pointed. “That one at the end.” In my bedroom, he shut the door and said, “What’s this?”

He carried me over to the evidence wall, where all the little faces were lined up, including his own. “You really have been busy.”

“They’re my suspects,” I said, muffled, into his shirt.

“I gathered.” He bent his knees, leaned in, so he could better see himself. “I can’t believe it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You should be. If you’re going to put me up there, at least use a good picture.”

Then he switched off the light, flicked on the bedside lamp, and dropped me onto the bed. Instead of joining me, he stood looking at me, as if he couldn’t believe he was there, and I was there, and there we were.

I reached for his tie, just like in a movie, and pulled him toward me, so that he planted one arm on either side of me, brown hair falling over his forehead, brown eyes staring down at me, mouth set in a half smile.

“You’re the damndest woman.”

His forehead met mine, his lips hovering close, so close but not touching. His breath quickened. He ran his hands over my skin, my hips, waist, arms, hair. I ran my hands over his shoulders, feeling the strength of his body underneath his shirt, along his neck and down his back. He pulled the shirt off, dropping it to the floor. His skin was hot to the touch. He pulled me up so I was standing and turned me around so that I was facing away from him. My heart was racing. Then I felt his fingers below my hairline as he unbuttoned my dress—a long line of buttons down the back and a sash at the waist. I felt the air hitting my skin as the buttons came open, as my back was exposed. He pulled at the sash, tugging it out of its bow. My dress dropped next, pooling at my feet.

I leaned in then and pressed my lips to his neck, where the skin was hottest. He swept me up and onto the bed, rolling me toward him so I was on top of him, and then rolling over again so he was on top of me.

And then, for no reason, I started to cry. “Sorry,” I said, and brushed the tears away. I pulled him in, kissed him again, and then felt another wave of tears, right after the first. “Dammit. Sorry.” I brushed these away too. I hiccupped. “God, sorry.”

He didn’t say anything, just lay down beside me, my back to him, pulling me in close. I cried and hiccupped and tried to focus on his arms and his heartbeat. And then I began to cry harder.

Eventually my mind drifted off. Hours later, I opened my eyes, and Sam was gone. I sat up, looking around, and the bathroom door opened. Sam, in boxer briefs, rubbing his eyes. He said, “You didn’t sleep long. How’s the head?”

“Splitting.”

“Do you keep aspirin in this place?”

“In the drawer there.”

He opened the drawer, and the bottles of Benzedrine and Seconal went rolling into the wood. “Well now, what’s this?” He held up the Benzedrine and shook it.

I sat up, gathering my hair, and then let it go. “Evidence.” I heard a noise outside, or downstairs, or maybe down the street. I cocked my head, listening.

“It was outside.”

“What?”

“The noise. I’m not just a pretty face, Pipes. I’m also blessed with exceptional hearing. So what’s my motive?” He nodded at the evidence wall.