The Bette Davis Club (20 page)

Oh, no. A dollhouse. We’re back on dollhouses.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

FAIRY CASTLE

T
he Museum of Science and Industry is about fifteen minutes from downtown Chicago. It’s huge. You can wander for hours looking at things like a baby-chick hatchery or an authentic steam locomotive from the 1890s. But Tully and I are hungry, so after we park and pay admission, we head to the food court.

“Food court” always sounds sort of silly, doesn’t it? Sounds like you’re going before a judge while also consuming a cheeseburger and fries.

We get our lunch and settle in at a table. Tully lifts the bread off the top of his sandwich. He looks at the filling inside.

“Do you remember the day we met?” Tully says, all the while inspecting his sandwich. “We were out in the desert, and you asked me what I did, was I a writer or what.”

“Yes. Neither of us was very sociable that day.”

“Right. Well, your sister, Charlotte—”

“Half sister.”

“Your half sister, Charlotte, was the reason I didn’t want to talk about what I do. Sure, I felt lousy and I was mad at Georgia, but I also thought that since you were related to Charlotte, you’d take her side. I thought you’d end up telling me I should write for films.”

Apparently satisfied with the quality of his lunch, Tully puts his sandwich back together and takes a bite of it.

“For your information,” I say, “I almost never side with Charlotte.”

Tully holds up a finger to signal that he’s chewing. “Yeah, well, now you know,” he says after a moment. “I don’t write for the movies. I don’t want to write for the movies. That’s Georgia’s fantasy, not mine. Georgia’s supposed to come up with a script and put herself and Kelsey and all their friends in it. That’s her plan. And speaking of scripts, what are you going to do with the one you lifted from Georgia’s room?”

“
An Innocent Lamb
?” I pat my leather tote on the chair next to me. It contains the screenplay and other items I took from Georgia. “I shall return it to its rightful owner.”

“Which is who, exactly?”

“I’m not sure,” I say.

On impulse, I set the tote bag on my lap and do a quick inventory of the things I pilfered. There’s
An Innocent Lamb
, of course. Also the
Spy Team
script, a brochure for the upcoming Tribeca Film Festival in New York, the
People
magazine with Malcolm Belvedere on the cover, and a second entertainment magazine. I page through it and see a brief piece about Malcolm.

“That’s funny,” I say to Tully. I tap the cover of
People
. “Your ex-stepfather is mentioned in both of these old magazines Georgia had.”

“He’s a celebrity,” Tully says. “He gets written about.”

“But he’s a studio head, not a movie star,” I say. “And Charlotte said he avoids publicity. So it’s not like he’s in every periodical you pick up. It seems odd he’d be in more than one publication that Georgia had.”

Tully shrugs. “Let me ask you something,” he says. “Does finding that script mean you’re done looking for Georgia?”

What Tully’s really asking, I think, is whether I’m done helping him look for her.

“Well,” I say, “now that I have
An Innocent Lamb
, seeing Georgia could be awkward. On the other hand, my agreement with Charlotte was that I would at least talk to her daughter. So I’m willing to continue. Do you think we should keep a watch on Kelsey’s apartment? See if Georgia shows up?”

“Maybe,” Tully says. “We could try that tomorrow.”

I put the scripts and magazines back in my bag. I pluck a carrot stick from my plate. “I wonder about Kelsey,” I say. “I thought wannabe actresses all had shabby flats. I thought they existed on rice cakes and ramen. How does she live so well?”

“Boone,” Tully says, ripping open a bag of potato chips. “The guy’s
loaded. He’s the reason Kelsey moved out here. They met in LA a couple
months back and fell in love—or whatever it is they are in. He’s bankrolling her career.”

“What exactly does Boone import and export?” I say. I munch on the carrot stick.

“Import—drugs. Export—who knows? Dead bodies, probably. The guy’s bad news.”

“That’s a lovely bunch of coconuts you hang with,” I say.

“Yeah, well, some of them are your relatives.”

After lunch, we follow the signs through the museum directing us to something called Colleen Moore’s Fairy Castle. This, I’m guessing, is the dollhouse Tully is so keen on viewing.

Crowded with tourists and schoolchildren, the museum gives off a comforting air of tradition and normality. I like museums. Finn Coyle and I used to visit the Metropolitan Museum of Art. With Finn as my guide, I learned a lot at the Met about art and architecture.

Thinking about Finn reminds me of how other people always mystify me. For example, what is going on at this moment inside Tully Benedict’s head?

“Tell me, please,” I say, as we walk along, “what’s so fascinating about this dollhouse we’re looking for?”

“Lots,” Tully says. “It’s not just a dollhouse. It’s a slice of history, a notable twentieth-century American miniature. It’s a side of popular culture I’m researching.”

He’s telling me this, and I’m trying to listen, trying to comprehend why a grown man would be interested in such things, when up ahead I see something that gives me a shock. The dollhouse, yes, it’s gigantic. But there’s something else, something between us and the dollhouse. Something barring our way.

God in heaven, it’s her. It’s the old lady from the dining room in Palm Springs. Still very much alive. I remember she said she lived in Chicago—but even so, I can’t believe she’s turned up here. And when I recall how rudely I behaved to her just a few days ago, it feels embarrassing and messy to encounter her again, like discovering gum stuck to the bottom of my shoe.

Her silver hair is well coiffed, and she’s smartly outfitted in a white dress and pearl earrings, with a blue Museum of Science and Industry vest thrown over her dress. And what’s that on her vest? Crikey. It’s a name tag that reads “Kay.”

No! She can’t be. She can’t! But she is. She’s a docent. She probably has all sorts of museum privileges and powers. She could summon security if she wanted to, or a squadron of flying monkeys. She could bring us up on charges in the food court—for loitering or breathing or something.

Tully and I come closer. The old lady sees me, and the instant she does she shoots me a look like one this nun used to give me at St. Verbian’s. A look that says, If only we still had corporal punishment.

“Hello,” she says. Her manner is chill. “Imagine you turning up here. Come to see if I’m still breathing?”

“Yes!” I blurt. “I mean, no! No! We’re searching for dolls!”

She looks puzzled. “Dolls?”

“Miniature dolls!” I say in a panicked voice. “We’re researching them!”

“She means the Colleen Moore dollhouse,” Tully says.

“Really?” the old lady says to me in her broad, Midwest accent. “Now that’s a surprise. The museum has several exhibits I’d think would appeal to you more. There’s a Nazi submarine, for instance. Think of the fun!”

Before I can reply, she continues, “Or you could take a look-see at our interactive giant heart. Tell us if it’s still beating.”

“Ho-ho,” I say. “I’m sure it’s in tip-top shape.”

“But if it isn’t, you’ll let us know.”

Tully looks lost.

“This lady was in Palm Springs,” I tell him. “We met in the hotel dining room.”

“That’s one way to put it,” she says. She’s tapping the sole of one of her polished white leather pumps against the floor.

“But now,” Tully says to her, “judging by your name tag, you’re back on home territory.”

“Yes,” she says. “I live in Chicago.” Is it my imagination, or does she put special emphasis on the word “live”?

“And you volunteer at the museum?” Tully says. “Do you like that?”

“It has its moments,” she says. The way she’s glaring at me, I don’t think this is one of them.

“I’m interested in Colleen Moore’s dollhouse,” Tully says. “I’m writing a book about American miniatures, about their history. And about their creators and collectors.”

“Marvelous!” the old lady says. “That’s a grand idea. I’m Kay Vanderwalk, by the way.” Clearly, Kay can’t bear the sight of me—but she seems quite taken with Tully. She offers her hand to him.

“Tully Benedict,” he says to her. They shake.

As though it’s an afterthought, which I’m sure it is, Kay introduces herself to me as well. That done, she turns back to Tully. “Here at the museum, we don’t often call it the dollhouse,” she says. “When the museum acquired it many years ago, it was officially renamed the Fairy Castle.” She smiles and gives a knowing nod. “You’ll appreciate the semiotics of that, Mr. Benedict, I’m sure.”

Tully laughs like she’s just said something highly amusing, but now I’m the one who’s lost. Semiotics? What is that? Some sort of penicillin?

Kay looks at her watch. “Actually, I’m scheduled to give a little introduction to the castle right about now.” She points to where a group of people are congregating by a sign that reads “Fairy Castle Talk 1 p.m.”

“Great,” Tully says. “I’d like to hear that.”

Kay excuses herself and moves off to address the group. Tully and I join the gathering, too, standing at one side.

The Fairy Castle is surrounded by protective glass, as though it were the
Mona Lisa
or the crown jewels or the Popemobile. The structure itself is quite large, about nine feet square and twelve feet high, and I admit it’s impressive. You could say it’s the ultimate dollhouse.

Oh, architecturally, it’s not my style. It’s all fantasy French rococo, with elaborate rooms and furnishings and precious little turrets and carvings. Basically, the whole thing is overdone. But that’s just it. The more you look at the castle, the more you get caught up in the story it tells. It’s a complete miniature world that pulls you in, like a drug or a dream.

“Good afternoon, everyone,” Kay says to the people gathered before her. Her voice is clear and strong. “I’m so glad you could all come today to see Colleen Moore’s Fairy Castle.”

The crowd instinctively moves closer. A little girl is in front, holding her mother’s hand. She’s about six years old, dressed in pink, and wearing a Barbie backpack. “Are you Colleen Moore?” she asks in a small voice.

“No, sweetheart, I’m not,” Kay says. She bends down toward the child. “My name is Kay. I volunteer here at the museum. I’m afraid Miss Moore died in 1988, but I’m going to tell you about her castle. Would you like that?”

The little girl nods.

And then Kay launches into her talk. She’s surprisingly good at it, and I expect she’s done it many times before. She explains that Colleen Moore was an American film star—huge, really—in silent films of the 1920s.

Pretty much forgotten now, though, isn’t she? I’ve never even heard of Colleen Moore. She’s certainly not remembered the way most people know about, say, Mary Pickford or Charlie Chaplin. Well, one day, you’re the Angelina Jolie of 1926, and the next all that’s left behind is your giant rococo dollhouse.

“Did she build the castle by herself?” asks the little girl.

“Good question,” Kay says. “And the answer is, no, she did not. It was her idea, but she had lots of help putting it together. Miss Moore hired Hollywood set designers and all kinds of expert craftspeople. She spent nearly half a million dollars financing the project. Of course, Miss Moore had a lifelong fascination with dollhouses. When she was a child, she had one fancy dollhouse after another. So it was something she always enjoyed doing.”

Kay goes on to talk about the castle’s murals and decorations, inspired by fairy tales and nursery rhymes, and the magnificent rooms and furnishings. The detail really is extraordinary: miniature lightbulbs each the size of a grain of rice, a gold chandelier made with genuine diamonds and pearls, a tiny silver bathtub with dolphin-shaped faucets.

“And then,” Kay says, “Miss Moore did a wonderful and altruistic thing.” She again addresses the little girl with the Barbie backpack. “Altruism means generosity to others. Like when you give money to charity.”

“We give groceries to the food bank,” the child says.