Spider Season (12 page)

Call me here at the house (the number printed below) and we can arrange a time, which shouldn’t be a problem for you, now that you’re on extended vacation (sorry, just another little joke I couldn’t resist; I actually wish you nothing but the best). If I’m out, just leave a message, and I’ll get back to you the moment my busy schedule allows.

Your devoted friend,

Jason Holt (aka Barclay Simpkins, back in college)

*   *   *

“My goodness,” Maurice said, reading along with me over my shoulder, “the man does go on and on about himself, doesn’t he?” Maurice ran his finger down to the signature at the bottom of the last page. “Look at the
J,
Benjamin. It’s very distinctive. It’s identical to the
J
in your last name that appears on those vile postcards you’ve been getting.”

“Yes, I noticed it myself.”

“But who is he, Benjamin?”

I studied the signature again.

“I met a Jason Holt recently. At my reading at A Different Light. He stood at the back, asked a couple of very pointed questions. Had me sign a book afterward.”

“That strange man with the ghastly blond hair and all the facial work?”

I nodded. “He insisted that we’d known each other, long ago.”

“He certainly seemed to know a lot about you when he wrote this letter. You don’t remember him?”

“Not even remotely.”

“Do you think it’s possible he’s the one who instigated the Pulitzer investigation? That one line—he seems to be taunting you about it, doesn’t he?”

“It wouldn’t matter if it was him or someone else. I deserved what I got. I came to terms with that long ago.”

“There’s not much doubt that this Jason Holt is behind those nasty messages you’ve been getting. What do you think he’s up to?”

“I’m not sure.” I studied the return address on the envelope, which indicated a house number on Nichols Canyon Terrace. “I wonder if he still lives in the same place.”

“I suppose it’s possible, even after all these years.” Maurice arched his brows sternly. “Benjamin, you don’t intend to go up there, do you?”

“I’d like to have a talk with him.”

“I still think you should turn this matter over to the authorities.”

“I doubt there’s enough to connect this guy to any prosecutable crimes. Anyway, the cops don’t like me much. Don’t worry, Maurice, I won’t knock the guy around, much as I’d like to. Just a few questions, that’s all.”

THIRTEEN

The return address on Jason Holt’s letter put the house high in the Hollywood Hills, near the top of Nichols Canyon.

The midafternoon sun blasted the brush-covered hills as I made my way up twisting Nichols Canyon Road. As I neared Mulholland Drive, I saw the street sign for Nichols Canyon Terrace and turned right. The street was short but long on Hollywood history, by the look of it. I felt a bit like Jake Gittes in
Chinatown,
driving up for an appointment with Hollywood money.

The narrow lane ended abruptly in a cul-de-sac, where I found the number I was looking for. It belonged to a vintage Spanish-style house that sat amid lush foliage that hadn’t seen a gardener in a while. At two stories, the house wasn’t exactly crumbling, but it was getting there. Rounded terra-cotta tiles decorated the roofline and arches, and smaller, decorative tiles had been scattered for accents, although a few were missing, leaving little square craters where the lost tiles had been embedded. Vines clung tenaciously to the walls, allowing stained-glass windows to peek out while giving the weathered house a dank, medieval look, even in the summer glare. It was the kind of place the Realtors would advertise as having “character” if it ever went up for sale, although its condition probably wouldn’t matter much up here, where a buyer was likely to tear it down for the lot and the view and put up a more showy monstrosity in its place. Sitting out front in the circular driveway was a bloodred 1953 Ferrari with a cream-colored top, a classic 375 America coupe that caused a car buff like me to swoon but also cringe, because of its neglected state. The paint was worn and coated with grime, the chrome of the wire wheels and oval grille pocked with rust. Like the house, the car had long ago lost its sheen, and in their disrepair they seemed a perfect match. It occurred to me they might even have been purchased around the same time, decades ago, with new money that was long gone.

I pressed the button for the doorbell but didn’t hear any chimes. When no one answered I pressed again, wondering if the bell even worked. When I knocked, my knuckles were equally ineffective, so I followed a path of inlaid stepping-stones to my left around the unfenced property, swiping at spiderwebs along the way. I emerged onto a flagstone patio green with moss at the edges closest to the north side of the house. Dilapidated lawn furniture sat forlornly around an empty swimming pool flecked white from peeling paint and choked with dry leaves at the deep end.

Beyond the forlorn swimming pool and across a lawn gone to seed was Jason Holt, hacking awkwardly but furiously with a machete at a dense grove of tall bamboo that pressed against a hillside. He wore long pants but no shirt, a pale, soft-looking man who appeared unaccustomed to manual labor as he gripped the machete’s handle with his small hands, grunting each time he raised the heavy blade to deliver another stroke.

He was so absorbed in his work that he didn’t notice my arrival. I crossed the dead lawn until only a few yards of it separated us, but still he failed to look over. To my right, beyond a low wall whose columns were partly entangled with morning-glory vines, was an open view of the city, all the way to downtown Los Angeles, where skyscrapers poked up through the pollution. To the northeast, I could make out the Hollywood Sign and the golden domes of the Griffith Observatory, landmarks from a time when the air was clean and the vistas uncluttered and suburban sprawl hadn’t yet turned Southern California into a concrete-and-asphalt wasteland. Just below us was Runyon Canyon Park, a rare urban landscape of wild chaparral, palms, pine, eucalyptus, and other vegetation that had survived from the thirties, when a private mansion had been built there. The overgrown ruins of an old Lloyd Wright house once occupied by Errol Flynn could still be found on the grounds, if one knew where to look. I could see hikers and joggers on the trails, and unleashed dogs bounding around with their owners, which was permitted, and helmeted bikers pedaling determinedly up Runyon Canyon Road in their colorful Spandex outfits, the zealous outdoor types desperate for open space and breathing room, if only for a stolen hour or two in their otherwise anxious, overly scheduled lives.

“Quite a view you’ve got up here,” I said.

Holt went rigid from the shoulders down, while his head swiveled in my direction with a startled look. When he saw it was me, the rest of his body came slowly around while his pale yellow eyes grew wide. In the cruel light of day, his surgically enhanced face looked even more grotesque. The peroxide hair didn’t help; neither did the makeup he’d applied in a futile attempt to bring some color to his pasty complexion. His undeveloped chest was nearly hairless, with a few wispy strands sprouting around his small, pink nipples. When he was considerably younger, I thought, he’d probably been regarded as appealing by certain older men with money who doted on slim, vaguely pretty types who knew how to ply their ambisexual looks and calculated charm. But that was before time and desperation had transformed Holt into what he looked like now: an aging eunuch obsessed with turning back the clock.

His alarmed reaction didn’t last long. He quickly regained control, smiling hospitably.

“Benjamin Justice. What a pleasant surprise!”

“Is it?”

“Of course!” His manner became sly, and a little smug. “An old friend, coming up for a visit. Unexpected, but certainly not unwelcome.” He added carefully, “Though I wasn’t aware I’d given you my address when I saw you at the bookstore recently. How did you happen to come by it, anyway?”

I decided to lie, wanting to keep him off-balance and hoping he’d forgotten the letter he’d sent me eighteen years ago.

“I found it in the phone book.”

His eyes narrowed with suspicion. “That’s not possible. I haven’t been listed for years.”

“It was listed under Silvio Galiano’s name. I found it in an old directory, at the downtown library. They keep them archived. It’s an old reporter’s trick.”

That seemed to please him. He perked up.

“You knew about Silvio and me?”

“It wasn’t exactly a secret, was it? As I recall, you two were quite an item.”

“You went to a lot of trouble to find me. Why the sudden interest?”

“I felt we should have a talk, get to know each other better.”

“Nothing would please me more!” He set the machete aside and pulled off his gloves. “I’m single again, you know.”

“You and Galiano split up?”

“You didn’t know? Silvio passed on, some years ago. Thankfully, we were able to share eight wonderful years together before he died.”

“When was that exactly?”

“So many questions, for someone who wouldn’t give me the time of day at his book signing.” He laughed self-consciously. “Or should I say, the time of night?”

“You aroused my curiosity, Jason. I want to know more about you.”

Holt stepped toward me, close enough that I picked up the scent of cologne and powder wafting off him. His eyes roved my face and stole glances at my upper body.

“Silvio passed on in 1997,” he said, finally connecting with my eyes. “You must have seen something about it in the papers. I was mentioned in several of the obituaries, although they apparently hadn’t done their homework. They could have at least made note of my film career, instead of just ‘companion.’”

“Still acting, are you?”

“Not so much anymore. The business isn’t kind as we actors mature. Even more difficult for women, of course. My aunt, Victoria Faith, hardly worked at all as she got older, until she landed a part on the soaps as a dowager.”

“Victoria Faith?”

“Surely you’ve heard of her. She was quite famous at one time.”

“I guess talent runs in the family.”

“Why, thank you, Benjamin!”

I glanced around at the once opulent property.

“And Galiano left all this to you?”

“The house and everything else. Why not? I was devoted to him.”

My eyes strayed to the morning-glory vines creeping along the wall, out of control. He’d placed the machete on top, next to his gloves, easily within his reach.

“You do your own gardening, do you?”

“My gardener wasn’t up to my standards. I had to let him go.”

“You’re sure it wasn’t a problem with your finances?”

“Why all the questions?” His manner took another shift, becoming coy. “Are you really all that interested in me, Benjamin? After all these years?”

“I’m interested in learning more about the person who’s been sending me some correspondence recently.”

His coyness evaporated. His eyes flickered anxiously.

“Correspondence?”

“Postcards, with offensive messages.”

I pinned him with my eyes, letting him sweat. A drop of perspiration hung on his pointy chin a moment, then fell and formed a slow rivulet between his fuchsia nipples.

Finally, he said hurriedly, “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I certainly haven’t sent you anything like that.”

“I don’t like the weird game you’re playing, Jason.”

“Game?”

“The little performance you put on the other night at the bookstore. This fantasy you’ve concocted about being close to me in the past.”

His nostrils flared; he raised his moist chin.

“It’s certainly no game.”

“Listen, Holt. Or Barclay Simpkins, or whatever your name is. I don’t know you, and I don’t want to know you. Can I make it any plainer than that?”

He shook his head in bewilderment. “You’re still in denial, aren’t you?”

I felt my jaw clench and my hands ball into fists. I willed myself to relax. “Denial about
what,
Jason?”

He reached out for me, but I brushed his hand roughly away.

“Your feelings for me,” he said, “the way you treated me back in college.” His voice became urgent, imploring. “I understand, Benjamin. It must have been difficult for you, the position you were in, your prominence on campus. Really, I do.”

I was tempted to tell him how pathetic he was. Instead, I asked, “We were in the same class?”

“Actually, I was a year ahead of you. To look at me, you’d never know it, would you? I delayed graduation an extra year, hoping you might—”

“Notice you?”

“You were dating that woman, Cheryl Zarimba, that Polish girl.” He said it as if he were spitting poison from his tongue. “She never really cared about you, you know. Not like I did.”

“You knew Cheryl?”

“I made a point of meeting her and gaining her confidence. Sure, she thought you were a real catch. But it was just a passing fancy. My feelings were so much deeper.”

“Without even knowing me?”

“I knew you, Benjamin, even if you ignored me. I arranged my life to be close to you. My major was zoology, which put most of my classes on the other side of campus from the journalism school. But I volunteered to sell advertising for the campus newspaper, just so I could be near you. When you were on deadline, writing one of your articles, I used to bring you coffee. Black, just the way you liked it. In that heavy mug you always drank from, the red one everyone knew not to touch, because you’d claimed it for yourself.”

It was true. I’d always taken my coffee black, and always in the same red mug, which I’d finally smashed against a wall in a tirade over something or other. So he was telling the truth, I thought. He
had
known me, or at least he’d been around back then.

“I’d set the mug on the upper right corner of your desk,” he went on, “just where you liked it, where you wouldn’t spill it on your precious copy. You’d mumble a thank-you, but you’d barely look up.”

“I was a bit full of myself in college. I apologize for that.”

I was surprised that I felt a twinge of sympathy for him. He was clearly obsessed and apparently lonely. Hating him suddenly felt petty and wrong, and smacking him around seemed counterproductive.