City of Mirrors (6 page)

Son-of-a-bitch.

As applause erupted from the marquee I went downstairs and across the lawn, the grass sucking at my heels. Stopping at the door to the guesthouse, I could hear Ryan muttering “Ouch. Ooooh. Ouch.”

“I'm not hurting you,” a voice as thin as the blonde whined.

“I'm sunburned.”

I pushed open the door. Ryan, his Bermuda shorts and briefs hanging down around his Uggs, gaped at me. The Sliver was on her knees in front of him, mouth open. Ryan clamped his hands over his genitals.

“If you want me to drive you home I'm leaving now,” I announced.

“
This
minute?” he gasped.

“I'm sure she can take you home.”

“I'm not driving all the way out to Malibu and back,” the Sliver whined.

“Do we have to discuss this now? I'll take a cab.”

I looked at the Sliver. She was young. Maybe Jenny's age.

“You want to be an actress?”

“Who doesn't?”

“Then get up off your knees.”

“What are you trying to do to me, Diana? You're a bitter woman.”

Ryan's words stayed with me as I made my way back across the lawn toward the valet. What could be worse than a bitter woman? A beat-up woman. A murdered woman.

W
hen I was a child I believed Sunset Boulevard could take me anywhere I wanted to go, from the Pacific Ocean to downtown Los Angeles, to New York, even to Paris, where mother had once shot a movie. As I grew more aware of my surroundings, I was shocked to discover Sunset Boulevard had its limitations. And I began to understand the limitations of my own life.

It was 10
p.m.
when I curved down Sunset onto Pacific Coast Highway and drove past my house to Celia's. I had called her and told her I was coming. She thought I wanted to talk about Jenny Parson's murder, which was now all over the news. But I didn't. I needed to tell her that Zaitlin was doing business with the man who had beat her up. And I knew it was going to turn her world upside down.

Sitting at the pine farm table in Celia's kitchen, I stared at Jenny Parson's smiling face spread across a wide plasma screen, the sound off. It was the perfect headshot of a hopeful young actress. But then, according to Jenny, she wasn't a hopeful young actress. She had only been doing what her father had wanted her to do.

I glanced at Celia, who was wrapped in a white terry robe, her long hair tied back into a haphazard ponytail. The bruise on her face was darker and meaner-looking than it had been in the morning. I had told her about the call from the Bel Air Hotel and finding Jenny's body. Smelling the homey aroma of the waxed wood surface and hearing the hum of the spotless stainless steel refrigerator, two things happened: I realized I was starving, and my unexpected tears began to flow. Again.

Celia took my hand, this time comforting me. “I can't even imagine what you've been through, having to pick up your mother's ashes and finding Jenny Parson. What can I do?”

“You could get me some bread and cheese,” I sobbed.

Along with the urn, there was a Kleenex box on the table next to a half-empty bottle of white wine. She grabbed a tissue and stuffed it into my hand.

“Did you know Jenny Parson well?” She opened the refrigerator, letting its cold light escape into the warm kitchen.

“Just enough to feel what a horrible waste her death is.”

“Was she talented?”

“Funny, Gwyn asked the same question. Would it matter less if she wasn't talented?”

“Gwyn? You went to the birthday party for Ben after discovering … ?”

“Zaitlin wanted to know what had happened.” I blew my nose and tossed the Kleenex onto a pile of other discarded tissues. I looked more closely at Celia's face. “Have you been crying?”

She nodded. “I don't think I'll ever be the same again. Will you? After what you saw?”

“I haven't been the same since Colin died so I don't know what ‘the same' is anymore.”

Retrieving what she needed, she slammed the refrigerator door and glanced at the TV. Jenny's face had disappeared and now there was a picture of the alley, police cars, and the body bag containing her corpse on a gurney being loaded into the coroner's van. The gurney hit a bump, and the body moved and jerked as if Jenny were kicking, trying to get out. We both turned away from the awful image.

She placed a baguette and some Brie on the table. “The bread is stale.” She sat down and poured us more wine.

“I have to tell you something, Celia.” I stared into my glass.

She pushed the cheese plate closer and waited for me to continue.

I raised my head. “It's … it's about the man who hit you.”

Her body went rigid. “What about him?”

“I met him. He was introduced to me as Leo Heath. Not Ward.”

“Introduced? Where was this?” She balled up a tissue, tightening her fist around it, her knuckles going white.

I gulped wine. “Tonight at Ben's party. In Zaitlin's office.”

“In Robert's office at his house?” Her brow furrowed as she tried to take in what I was telling her. “What was Ward or whatever his name is doing there?”

“He owns a security firm and does some jobs for Robert. His guards were working the party.”

“You're telling me Robert knows him?” The fear I had seen in her this morning returned full force.

“Robert had called him about Jenny's death. He's a Hollywood fixer.”

Her hand trembled as she tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Did Ward … Heath say anything to you?”

“Not really. I mean, he knew I recognized him. I tried to dump a plate of food on him.”

“What?”

“I know it was stupid. But I felt I had to do something.”

“You always have to do something. I never should have told you.”

“Could Robert have sent him to Bella Casa?”

“And have me show him the house without telling me? It doesn't make sense.” She threw the wadded tissue onto the same pile. Her expression darkened. “What are you implying, Diana?”

“Nothing.” I sat back. “I'm just telling you what happened.”

“Well, don't.” Standing, she walked the length of her kitchen, terry slippers scuffing on the planked floor. “I asked you to stay out of it.”

I tore off a piece of bread. She was right—it was stale.

“Oh, my God,” she blurted, pointing to the screen.

There was a photo of me slumped down against the alley wall, clinging to my mother's urn. Eyes half closed, lips drooping, I looked as if I'd been drinking rotgut out of the urn. Who had taken the picture?

Celia clicked the remote, turning on the sound, sitting down again.

“We now have more information on the murder of Jenny Parson,” said the news anchor. “This is a picture of the actress Diana Poole soon after the discovery of her friend's body.”

“Friend? She wasn't my friend.”

“What is that she's holding?” the co-anchor asked.

“It's apparently the urn containing her mother's ashes. According to Al Bailey, the doorman at the Beverly West condos, Ms. Poole used the urn to trick him into gaining entry into Ms. Parson's condo.”

“Oh, God, in the alley the doorman must've taken the picture with his cell phone.”

“This case is getting more and more bizarre,” the co-anchor smiled broadly.

“Diana Poole's mother, the famous actress Nora Poole, died last week of natural causes at the Hotel Bel Air,” the anchor said, as if that piece of information cleared up everything.

“Turn it off.” I sat up and downed the last of my wine.

Clicking the remote, Celia slid it angrily across the table, then stood. I peered up at her. Her mouth was set firm, her face pinched. “I want you to go.”

“What?”

“I told you to leave this alone. And you went and got involved.”

“I didn't search out Heath. He walked into a room where I was standing.”

“I can't trust you anymore, Diana.”

“I know this has been a shock for you. We've both been through a lot in the last twenty-four hours.”

“You never approved of my relationship with Robert.”

“You keep bringing that up. This has nothing to do with what I feel about you and Robert.”

“It has everything to do with it! I don't want to lose him. To lose everything.”

“Did you want me to lie? Not tell you what happened?”

“I'm not sure I believe you.” Her voice rose, angry and hurt. “You're using this to create some kind of … I don't know … distrust between Robert and me.”

“That's not true. What's going on? Does Heath have some kind of hold on you? Or is it Zaitlin?”

“You honestly think that Robert has …”

“Why was Heath using an assumed name at Bella Casa?” I paused and asked in a softer voice. “Why did he beat you up, Celia?”

Tears streaming down her face, she screamed at me, “Maybe because I looked like a woman who needed to be beaten up!”

“You don't mean that.” I reached for her hand.

She recoiled from my touch. “Get out.” She swept past me and into the hallway. Stunned, I gathered the urn and my purse.

The front door was open. Celia glared down at the floor.

Stepping outside, I turned back to her. “Let me help you …”

She slammed the door in my face. Celia and I had never had a major fight. But there was a disturbing finality to that closed door.

Acting is a series of emotional adjustments or beats, as they are sometimes called. But the adjustments have already been made before the scene is played. The actor knows how the story will end. I know this is my cue to cry or to laugh, so I have already prepared my feelings because I'm aware this moment is coming. Now driving down the street to my house, unlocking the door, and turning on the lights in my living room, I was at a loss. I was not prepared for Celia's reaction, for the possibility of losing her as a friend. I told myself we were both overwrought and I just needed to give her time. I hoped I was right.

From the TV in the kitchen I could hear my name being tossed around by two female anchors.

“Shut up!” I yelled at them. They didn't.

I set my purse and the urn on the coffee table. My gaze shifted to Colin's Oscars. There was room on the mantel for another successful ghost. Picking up Mother, I placed her between his two awards.

“We're back together again after all these years.” I leaned my forehead against the hard stucco mantel. I wanted to cry but I was too tired.

Tensing, I became aware of someone outside on my deck. I whirled around. Pressing his face against the sliding glass door, Ryan Johns peered in, looking like an aging lost boy. I let out my breath and opened the door. He rolled in with the salty cold air.

“I feel sobriety coming on. How about a nightcap?” He wriggled his eyebrows at me.

“I'm going to bed.”

He lingered, hands in his jacket pockets, beer belly hanging over the waist of his Bermuda shorts. “Diana, I vaguely remember hearing, in my sexually unfulfilled drunken haze thanks to you, somebody at the party say that Jenny Parson was murdered. Did you hear about it?”

“It's all over the TV. I discovered her body. You can go into the kitchen and learn all about it. I'm still going to bed.”

“You found her body?” Confused, he ran his large hands through his red unruly hair. “How well did you know her?”

“You don't need to know someone well to find their corpse. We were working together on a movie, that's all. We talked alone in her trailer yesterday evening.”

“What about?”

“She couldn't remember her lines. Why? Did you know her?”

“This'll bring her father down here.” He edged crablike back out onto the deck and toward the stairs.

“You know Jenny's father?” I followed after him.

“In a way.” He loped down the steps to the common pathway.

“In what way?” I yelled after him.

“I owe him money.” He ran up his steps and disappeared inside his house.

My landline rang. Closing and locking the sliding doors, I answered it.

“Don't you ever answer your cell?” Zaitlin bellowed.

“I turned it off.”

“You're all over the television holding your mother's ashes, for God's sake.”

“I know. I think it was the doorman who took …”

“Our insecure star, Jake Jackson, is chewing my ass out about it. He asked me if you'd gone fucking nuts.” Before I could respond, Zaitlin continued, “I'm sending a car for you tomorrow at eleven in the morning. Jackson wants a meeting to discuss if we go forward with the movie or not. And he wants to make sure you're okay.”

“In what way?”

“‘Okay' as in not fucking
nutso
.”

“You know I'm not. And why a car? You think I'm so crazy I can't drive?”

“In case there are reporters outside your house. I don't want any more mistakes, Diana.”

“Mistakes? You mean like finding Jenny Parson in a garbage truck?” I was yelling now.

“No, I mean your reaction to it.”

“If you had done your job as producer I wouldn't have been put in this position.”

“All right. Let's calm down. We're all on edge. Just don't bring your mother to the meeting.” He hung up.

I slammed the phone down and stared at the urn dominating the mantel. The cherry wood looked substantial. Her nameplate shone. Maybe I should unpack her Oscar for Best Actress in a Starring Role and put it up there. Except I wasn't sure where it was stored. I wasn't sure where anything or anyone was.

In bed, I took a sleeping pill and turned out the light. The TV flickered a bad black-and-white film. They weren't all great.

I thought about Ryan owing Jenny's father money. He didn't ask how Jenny was murdered. Nor did Celia. Nobody seemed interested in how she died or why. Except Ben. And why would the head of a security firm, a fixer, use an alias to look at Bella Casa? And then there was Beth Woods, our director, who thought Jenny was evil. Why did she think that?

My mind wandered to tomorrow's meeting with Jake Jackson. He had star power and an image to protect, a dangerous combination. Was he going to kill the movie? Or just kill me by recasting my part when they recast Jenny's? One way or another we were all in danger. Somehow. I reached out my hand to the empty side of the bed. It was a futile attempt for comfort.

The sound of a woman screaming bolted me out of my sleep. My heart leaping, I blinked at the TV. Joan Crawford, her mouth opened so wide you could park a truck in it, was screaming herself into a nervous breakdown. I didn't blame her.