Grace Doll (6 page)

“Jon was a great man.” A static quiet fills the air. “Like I said,” Dick continues. “This is for you only and only you.” He holds out a card.
Richard Ridgeway, Attorney.
His office address and phone number are embossed in silver. “Call me any time. I mean that.”

I nod.

He turns and heads for the door. “Jon wanted this kept confidential. Even from Judy.”

I swallow. Nod. “Okay.” My head flashes fantasies of me opening the safe deposit box and heaps of money flowing out to my feet.

When the door shuts and I am alone in the room, a sigh leaves my chest. Beyond the door, the soft buzz of voices hums like black bees. Dad spent hours in this room. He’d told me it was his favorite place in the house.

My gaze leaves the envelope, moves to the worn leather chair. I ease myself into it and face the view of lush trees, the pool, brick patio. I shift, and the faintest waft of Dad whispers from the years, the depths, the life of the chair.

When I get up to leave, the imprint left behind will be mine.

* * *

At the bank, I show my driver’s license and passport. An officer wearing a light grey uniform escorts me down marble stairs, through a narrow marble hall and into a vault-like room lined with what looks like millions of different sized steel doors with locks.

He points out my door and leaves me alone.

My heart beats so fast, I can hardly hold my hand still long enough to slip the long narrow key into the lock. Inside is another envelope with my name on it. Next to it sits a small silver box with a combination lock.

Hands sweaty, I open the envelope, afraid to tear anything before I’ve had a chance to see what’s inside.

A color photograph of Grace Doll—the screen icon of the 40s. I remember the photo. Dad had insisted I sketch it once. Her gaze is directly on the lens. The look in her eyes sends a tremor through me. When I was thirteen I’d had a crush on her after I’d watched
Paradise Found.
Dad had been her makeup artist back in the day, and the far-off look in his eye when he talked about her had piqued my curiosity. Mom told me Dad had been in love with her. Still, I’m surprised Dad’s put this picture inside a safe deposit box. It must be valuable, like the unpublished photos of Marilyn Monroe people are always ‘finding.’

I set the photo down on the table, but it’s hard to drag my gaze from hers. It’s not like I haven’t seen photographs of her a million times. Even today I see them on the cover of the random tabloid. And my crush is long gone. But her eyes—the look on her face—mystifies and compels. In this particular photo, it’s like she’s so real I expect to see her eyes blink. I gently ease out a piece of sketch paper from the envelope. The letter is handwritten—the penmanship is Dad’s—aged, weak, but with an artistic slant.

I look at the contents of the safe, as if something important will appear. Like money. Gold. Something.

My heart plunges. This is it?

My pulse seems to have stopped dead in my veins. Breath races in and out of my chest. Rufus Soloman? Is this why the man wants to talk to me? I blink. Focus.

He can’t be serious.
But he locked this up. I have the key.

Why would he tell me this now?

My gaze continues to the next paragraph.

You’ve got to be kidding me.
What does he expect me to do? Drop everything and go running to some old lady? Anger crashes through me. I want to crush the paper shaking in my hands and I’m frustrated that I can’t bring myself to.
What an idiot you are, thinking that he’d leave you something special. Something substantial. Like money for an education.

I can’t finish the letter, not right now. My father couldn’t have cared less about me. It was always about him. As if years of neglect wasn’t enough.

I stare at the walls lined with small steel boxes. What do they hold? Better treasures than this pile.

Disbelief weighs my heart down to dark places. Finally, my gaze shifts back to the letter. There’s another paragraph but my eyes can’t focus on the words and I’ve got too much pride to be insulted further.

Scraping my hands down my face, I slowly lower in the provided chair.

Unbelievable.

From the table, Grace Doll watches me in the photograph.

* * *

In the parking lot of the bank, I sit in the van, staring at traffic crawling along Sunset Boulevard. Night came, and the parking lot slowly emptied. Now, it’s eight o’clock.

I’m vacant.

Inside of the VW van starts to feel like an icebox. A black and white cop car pulls into the lot. He’s doing his rounds, this is a bank after all. I’m the only one here. A teenage boy sitting for hours in the lot of a bank? Suspicious.

Starting the van, I back out of the slot and pass the officer, forcing a smile on my lips. I can hardly concentrate on the road, let alone placate a cop with a nice gesture I’m so furious.

My last wish...

Another wave of anger surges through me. My fingers tighten around the steering wheel.
Is this what it’s all been about? Some twisted grooming so you could leave your burdens to me?

It makes sense now: the stories of sudden vanishing acts while married to Mom—no explanation given except that he needed to get away. Even Judy’s been victim of Dad’s mysterious disappearances. Once she’d called Mom, demanding to know if he was with us. Mom’s voice had pitched during the conversation. “Welcome to Jon’s world,” was all she’d said.

His world, his secrets.

My body barely contains the resentment. The betrayal. Why did he marry Mom to begin with? She said he’d always preferred younger women. Obviously, the thirty year age spread wasn’t enough. And if he preferred younger women, what the hell possessed him to marry gold-digging, seventy-something Judy?

my last wish ...

I let out a ragged growl, thrust my hand into my hair and drive Sunset Blvd. home. Why should I do a damned thing for him? The old lady’s lived—what—eighty plus years? Maybe it’s time for her to face up to her decisions.

Not my problem.

Then it hits me: the world would pay big to know Grace Doll is still alive. Not to mention this Soloman dude who, if I had to bet, is counting on getting some intel from me. Possibilities speed through my brain: money. Tons of money. Unlimited opportunities. Fame.

But fame doesn’t interest me. In fact, even with the money taunting me I know I’d be pegged an opportunist once the story got out.
Disgruntled son leaks aged movie star’s whereabouts for fame and fortune.

I can trust you to do whatever needs to be done.

Trust.

Hell.
I blow out a sigh.

Roscomare Road is dark with thick trees so houses aren’t visible from the street, only tips of driveways protected by electric gates. Scattered streetlamps are lit, but that only adds to the emptiness. A black town car idles across from Dad’s house. Its parking lights glow like red eyes. The funeral and gathering was over hours ago. I can’t see who is inside, the windows are tinted. But the moment I pass, the engine of the car starts up. My palms start to sweat. I watch the sedan through my rearview mirror. It drives away.

A shiver cools my skin. I scan burly bushes the length of the driveway and every dark burrow on my way to the front door. Dad’s place is dark. Who knows where Judy is. I figured she wouldn’t stick around. Over the last three months I’d lived here whenever Dad had needed anything she’d sighed like he was imposing, like she was checking her watch, waiting for him to kick the bucket. Maybe it was because I took care of Mom, but I couldn’t stand by and watch anybody treat a dying person like they didn’t matter anymore. She and I had had our share of shouting matches over it.

I don’t care where she is, I’m just glad she’s not here.
Inside, the halls whisper with my footsteps on hardwood.

I enter the guest bedroom but keep the lights off and cross to the windows, peer out. The room has a view of the street. Through the trees and bushes I see a black Bentley. The car slowly passes in front of the house, headlights off, then parks across the street where it had parked before. What the hell? Why am I paranoid? This is Bel Air, not the valley. And that car could be out there for a number of reasons: namely any of the neighbors.